


A Queen's Gamble

by for_darkness_shows_the_stars



Series: A Queen's Gamble-verse [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Incredible Hulk (2008), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Frigga, Blood, Body Horror, Complete, Crack Treated Seriously, Dysfunctional Family, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Frigga Fights Thanos With The Power Of Confusion, Frigga is a Good Mom, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Loki (Marvel) Needs a Hug, Mind Control, Or a lot of them, Panic Attacks, Public Displays Of Dysfunctionality, Tony Stark's incredible nicknaming skills, Very seriously, all the fun stuff, but they're working on it okay, everyone is confused, she's not perfect but she's trying, that's a given where the Odinfam is concerned, this tag is my single greatest achievment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:15:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 61,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25015327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_darkness_shows_the_stars/pseuds/for_darkness_shows_the_stars
Summary: When Prince Loki of Asgard let himself fall into the Void, none expected him to survive.When he appears a year later raining death upon the mortals of Midgard, his family is determined to have him back. The way of going about it, though ... they disagree.Frigga comes to Midgard to fetch her wayward son. It changes quite a lot.
Relationships: Bruce Banner & Tony Stark, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Frigga | Freyja & Loki (Marvel), Jane Foster & Darcy Lewis, Loki & Avengers Team, Loki & Tony Stark, minor Jane Foster/Thor - Relationship
Series: A Queen's Gamble-verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1811260
Comments: 899
Kudos: 1087
Collections: My amazing all time favourites.





	1. I - Earth to Asgard

**Author's Note:**

> So, my friends, this is how this thing came to be:  
> me: i wanna write fic  
> brain: yes yes write fic  
> me: something short and funny, like crack  
> brain: yeah okay, but imagine this: crack ... but make it angsty  
> me: ...  
> brain: and looong  
> me: ...  
> me: ...  
> me: am i a joke to you  
> brain: ur gonna do it, tho?  
> me: of course im gonna do it!
> 
> So ... yes. Here we are.  
> Enjoy!

**I**

**Earth to Asgard**

Frigga is in her garden when the message arrives. She is trimming white roses from her homeland, a task she would entrust to no servant. These roses are one of the too few things she had brought along when she first arrived to Asgard.

Her gown is stained with sweat and dirt, her hands and back ache, and yet, Frigga enjoys it all the same. It is simple work, automatic. If she works, she doesn’t have to _think_.

She can let herself melt into the movements of her hands, the snipping of plant stalks, the silvery reflection of Asgard’s twin suns upon her clippers.

She does not have to think.

She does not have to think.

She does not have to _think_.

“My Queen!”

She whirls at the voice, at whoever _dares_ to interrupt, clippers like a dagger in her hand—

And sees a tiny page boy, looking at up her nervously. His hair is dull blond, straight as a plant stalk and cut in a sharp line across his forehead, his eyes small, and a shade of pallid blue—a colouring much desired in Asgard, but … watery. Diluted. His looks, she knows, shan’t be as lauded as her eldest’s azure eyes and golden hair.

And then she realizes she is holding the inconspicuous gardening tool as a weapon above the boy’s head. Before shame can flush her cheeks crimson, she composes herself, and lets her body relax into the regal stance of the All-Mother.

She curves a brow, motioning for the boy to speak.

He straightens, squaring his shoulders. In another life, she would find it endearing. It reminds Frigga of better days, when Loki used to trail her steps as a little boy, mimicking her regal bearing. What was expected and becoming of the All-Mother turned adorable and endearing when practiced by the younger prince. One millennia later, and she could still recognize traces of herself in his walk, in his posture, in his fighting style.

Not anymore.

She clamps down on the emotions before they can get the better of her, and forces her focus onto the page.

“His Royal Majesty the King requests your presence in his study, Your Grace.”

Frigga _wants_ to sigh, to crumple on the ground and lay there forever. With that being insupportable, she has, up until now, settled for the next best thing—working herself into a state of mindlessness. It works. Not well, not healthy, but it works.

What she does not want in any case is having to speak with Odin. She has been married to the man for thousands of years, and it has not always been felicitous. But until now, she has always been able to forgive.

Not anymore.

Not since Odin went after her children, battling upon the Rainbow Bridge, yet returned only with one.

She sighs. It is not just, she knows. In the end, she is as much to blame as he is. But then again, she has never claimed her feelings to be rational. They are a clutter of rage and sorrow and love and guilt and hurt and other things she cannot even begin to name.

Well, then. She looks down on herself, and has to conceal a grimace at the sight of her stained gown. “Tell the All-Father I shall arrive as soon as I change.”

The page boy gulps, sun-tanned throat bobbing nervously. “The All-Father said it was of utmost importance and urgency.”

Frigga blinks for a moment, composing herself. “All right, then,” she tells the boy. “You did well, young one.”

The boy’s pale blue eyes widen at the praise, a satisfied smile spreading across his face. Not much of an actor, then. Well. But he is still very young. There is plenty of time for him to become well-versed in the games and machinations of the Royal Court.

She storms away, to the Palace of Gladsheim, resplendent in the sun, rising high above the glittering golden city, towering over even the tallest of buildings.

Inside, people march out of her way with only the barest necessary acknowledgements of her status. No petitioners approach her, no courtiers greet her and come to seek her favour. Inwardly, she is smug. Who knew that an angry expression could go such a long way towards peace? She shall have to remember that for future use.

Before the tall, carved door of Odin’s study, she pauses—and then she wants to laugh.

 _Frigga All-Mother_ _hesitating before a simple door. The Nine Realms tremble before me._

She knocks. The sound is loud and dull and it irritates her inexplicably.

The door slide open soundlessly, revealing a majestic chamber, walls lined with bookshelves, a heavy oaken desk in the centre. Odin sits behind it.

“My King,” Frigga says, bowing her head, and she cannot quite keep the biting cold out of her voice. Does not quite want to.

Regret and weariness and hurt at her cold address flicker in Odin’s one eye, but then it is all gone, just as sure as if he had choked the life out of the unbecoming sentiments himself.

Well, if that is the game he desires to play …

There is a faint sound behind her, of someone clearing their throat. Frigga whirls, skirts swaying around her legs, and comes face-to-face with Heimdall, in all his gleaming, golden glory.

Normally, the queen would have greeted him like an old friend, for he is one, but the game Odin plays is forefront in her mind. She hopes Heimdall will forgive her.

“Gatekeeper.”

“My Queen.”

She frowns. If Heimdall is present, then this surely cannot be yet _another_ of Odin’s _‘interventions’_. It’s been little over a year since Loki’s … fall … and by now, she can recite the arguments her dearest husband has given her by heart.

_It’s not our fault … Jötunn blood … he had only himself to blame … if only … more like Thor … if Norns would have it … Laufey’s blood …_

Suddenly quite aware that golden curls are falling out of the complex bun her handmaidens had put her hair into this morning, plastered to her face with sweat, that she is wearing a gown stained with dirt.

Still, Frigga only straightens. It’s been an age since she had been the insecure little Vanir girl playing a queen in this new, wondrous, terrifying realm, but she will never, _never_ forget.

Chin up, project confidence.

Queen.

“What is it?”

Odin sits down, and now, he seems very, very tired. He gestures at Heimdall to speak.

“It concerns the Prince,” the Gatekeeper tells her, his deep, rich voice lulling her into a sense of security. As the queen, she _is_ Asgard, and Heimdall is Asgard’s security. _Her_ security.

“What could Thor have possibly done to warrant my being summoned her in such haste?” If Odin winces at her tone, and her using the word _summoned_ , well, _he has only himself to blame._

Heimdall’s face is like hewn from stone.

That, of course, is not strange—Heimdall’s face is always stone. But Frigga can sense the tightness in his posture, around his lips. She has known him for a couple of millennia, after all.

“It is not the matter of Thor,” Odin growls from behind her, and she turns again. Her heart thunders in her chest, her hands are tightening into fists, sharp nails nearly piercing the soft skin of her palms.

She speaks above the clot of emotion that has made its home of her throat. “If this is some sort of elaborate _jest_ …”

“It is no jest, Your Grace,” Heimdall says, as grave as ever, while Odin gestures towards one of the upholstered chairs in front of his desk.

“Please, Frigga.”

She debates only for a second, before lowering herself into the offered chair. There is more at stake than her and Odin’s little game. “Tell me.”

Odin sighs. He looks tired, her husband. But Frigga can’t find it in herself to care, or even worry. All her thoughts, all her feelings are focused on the small scrap of hope that has stubbornly lodged itself in her heart and refuses to go away.

“I Saw Prince Loki,” Heimdall says. He is making an effort to be gentle, and Frigga wants to throttle him for it. Grab him by the horns of his helmet and _shake_ until he has told her every last bit and scrap of information, until he has told her _where her son is._

Heimdall, Norns bless him, seems to understand the sentiment she is trying very hard to convey through only her eyes, because when he speaks again, it is more rushed and far more satisfactory.

“The Prince has arrived on Midgard not two hours ago, opening a portal using the Tesseract, where the mortals were studying it.”

“The Tesseract,” Odin says, voice bitter. “It was foolish of me to leave it there. The mortals are far too curious for their own good. Their lives are fleeting, they forget their ancestors’ promises too easily.”

Frigga wants to throttle her dearest husband as well because _how can he care for the Tesseract when Loki is alive?!_

Heimdall, in the meanwhile, continues.

“The news are not good, my Queen.”

Frigga feels blood drain out of her face. “Whatever do you mean.” It’s not a question.

Odin’s patience, apparently, has run out. “He has attacked the mortals, Frigga,” he says, as though she is a fool for not realizing that as soon as Loki’s name was mentioned. “He has attacked them, killed several, and taken several more as his thralls. _And_ he made off with the Tesseract.”

“Thralls?”

“He has a sceptre, my Queen,” Heimdall says, the gentle tone back in full force, and this time around, Frigga appreciates it, “that he does not part with. Even here, I sense its power, thrumming, waiting, poised to strike. It has an ability to influence minds. Thus …” he inclines his head, “thralls.”

Oh, Loki.

“Is that all?” she says, praying to the Norns …

“No, my Queen.”

Frigga clenches her hands and grinds her teeth together.

“What more is there?”

Heimdall pauses. “He has an army of beings we have never directly encountered here on Asgard before, but our tales and fables describe them as fearsome warriors. They are called the Chitauri. He … means to unleash them upon Midgard.”

Frigga licks her lips. She feels hot and cold at the same time. This is her wildest dream and her worst nightmare, all in one. “To what end?”

The Gatekeeper inclines his head. “War.”

_Oh, Loki._

“We need to bring him home,” she says, resolve building up in her chest.

Behind her, Odin snorts. “Of course we do. I shan’t let him run rampant across the Nine, sowing death and discord wherever he goes. There has been enough of that.”

Frigga draws herself up, but stays silent. Defiant words will do her no good in this situation. “I will go,” she declares. “I will bring my son home.”

Odin frowns, the wrinkles carved into his brow deepening. “That is … unwise. I shall send Thor. If anyone stands a chance of containing Loki, it is him.”

Frigga raises a brow. “You would send Thor? Have you forgotten, perhaps, what happened the last time Thor tried to reason with Loki?” Pain strikes through her heart, but she braves on. “He _let go_ , Odin.”

“Clearly, the boy cannot be reasoned with at all,” the All-Father growls, “and all your efforts would be for naught.”

A humourless chuckle escapes her. “Yes, dear husband, because Thor is so very skilled at diplomacy.” Odin opens his mouth to protest, but Frigga silences him with a raised finger. It brings a dark sort of satisfaction to her. “No. I shall hear no more of this. For far too long have you ignored Thor’s faults. He is a warrior, not a diplomat, and we are both to blame for that. We have allowed him to merely _play_ at being a prince for centuries. And look where it has brought us.”

“He has been—”

“Yes,” she snaps, “he has been learning, that is true. But he is far from ready. If you send Thor, all that will result in is further bloodshed.”

Odin’s hands go to his temples, rubbing, as though he means to coax a headache out. “And what would you have me do, Frigga?”

“I said so already, _I will go_.” She pauses, swallowing. “If there is anyone capable of reasoning with Loki, it is me. You know it to be true.”

“I wish it weren’t so,” Odin admits, after a short silence. She has never seen him so quiet. So tired. Not in the days before his last Odinsleep, not even after the Bifröst battle.

“But you concede that I am right.”

Odin’s single eye narrows “I concede that there may yet be a solution we have not considered. But we will. In time.”

“We do not _have_ time,” Frigga hisses. “And neither has Loki, nor the Midgardians. Would you doom them all because you dislike the idea of my going there so much?”

Odin draws himself up, much more reminiscent of the King of Asgard than the old, tired man he’d been seconds ago. “I shall consider,” he says imperiously. “You will both be informed of my final decision.”

Heimdall bows his head, and makes it for the exit door. Frigga lingers a few moments longer.

“Whatever decision you make, dear husband, I sincerely hope it to be the right one.” And with that, she is gone.

Once out, she rushes after Heimdall, picking up her skirts as she goes. The Gatekeeper pauses, having, of course, Seen her run, and turns. A small smile plays about his lips.

“Your Grace.”

“Heimdall,” she breathes, catching up. “I … you told me so little.”

“My apologies, my Queen,” he says, and even though it’s spoken in his usual, unaffected tone, she can feel the undercurrent of sincerity in his words. “What is it that you desire to know?”

She bites her lip. She hasn’t felt this nervous since she has first arrived on Asgard. “Is he … is he well?”

She hates herself for her weakness, for the hesitation. Loki _needs_ her now. She cannot be weak.

She frets as she waits for Heimdall’s answer. The Gatekeeper’s golden eyes are far, far away. He opens his mouth, and Frigga braces herself.

“No.”

The ground threatens to slip from under her feet. Distantly, she recognizes the searing pain in her palms, brought on by the fisting on her hands.

“But …” Heimdall continues, and Frigga holds onto those words like a lifeline. “He is better than he was when he first arrived.”

She grits her teeth together, fighting to keep her temper in check. “Pray, Heimdall, do not play games with me. Don’t make me solve your riddles.”

Heimdall gives her an unreadable look. “I apologize again, my Queen. To answer your question … he has been hidden from me, after he fell. The moment I Saw him arrive on Midgard, I set off to inform you and the King. Even now, he hides, but not nearly as successfully.” He pauses, thoughtful. “That would mean that either he has not the strength required to keep out of my Sight … or he does not wish to hide.”

“Strength?” Frigga echoes, frightful. “What do you mean?”

“He is … weak, I think. Different. Still more than a match for any mortal, of course, but … when he first arrived, he looked ready to collapse right then and there. I know not what force compelled him to even stay conscious, much less do battle. In the brief glimpses I have been allowed since then … he seems improved.”

Frigga nods. It’s not _good_ news, exactly, but it’s miles better than nothing. “Thank you, Heimdall. Will you …” she hesitates. “Will you keep me informed?”

That same soft smile curves Heimdall’s lip almost imperceptibly, and he inclines his head, saying, “Of course, my Queen.”

It’s enough, she thinks. It has to be.

_Oh, Loki. Oh, my sweet, sweet boy, what has happened to you?_


	2. II - Shakespeare in the Park

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frigga arrives on Midgard.  
> Everyone is varying levels of confused.

**II**

**Shakespeare in the Park**

“Make your move, Reindeer Games.”

Tony watches as the wannabe evil alien overlord carefully raises his hands in the universal gesture for surrender. Or … interplanetary, he supposes, since this guy sure as hell isn’t from around here.

His armour, including the flashy golden helmet that has prompted the nickname, slowly vanishes in a flash of soft green light, leaving him in somewhat simpler, but still ridiculously elaborate and entirely Earth-inappropriate attire.

“Good move.”

The alien— _Loki_ , he reminds himself— _looks_ human enough, but Tony’s not fooled.

He is a study in contrasts—raven hair mercilessly drawn back with what must be the most heavy-duty hair gel in the universe, tips curving and sticking up in spikes, framing an alabaster-pale face. His features are noble and delicate; prominent cheekbones, a high brow, a straight nose. Distantly, Tony wonders if all Asgardians are quite this pretty. The thought makes the corner of his lip curve upwards.

“Mr Stark,” Captain- _fucking_ -America greets, somewhat winded from the fight. It was quite a thing to behold, for sure, and the fact that Reindeer Games persisted as long as he did against Cap is a testament to his ability.

“Captain,” Tony retorts, totally casually, nothing to see here. Just the guy his dad compared him to his entire life. The paragon he was held up to, and always found lacking … so yeah. Nothing to see but Tony’s planet-sized daddy issues. That he’s not going to do anything about. Ever.

 _Lord_ , he’s being pathetic about this.

If nothing, he thinks, this was quick. Now they just need to drop Reindeer Games back at the S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier Fury awaits them on, and he can go back to his life and have that date with Pepper when she comes back from D.C. Hopefully.

Actually … no … there’s that damn cube. Inwardly, he groans. Fucking aliens.

Well, the sooner he starts, the sooner he can get all this over with.

He opens his mouth to suggest as much to Captain- _fucking_ -America next to him, when a soft sound distracts him. It’s much too quiet to pick up without his suit’s sensors, but … Reindeer Games, too, has taken his eyes off Tony’s many, many guns.

He isn’t quite sure _what_ he expects.

But he knows it’s not this.

It’s like a stormy cloud of blue and black appeared in the middle of the road, sprays of lightning fizzing and sparking out of it. It spreads _fast_ , and then there is a figure coming out of it, walking at a leisurely pace.

Tony raises a hand, repulsors at the ready—and _something_ slams into him, taking him down onto the ground. There’s a _clank_ sound as his armour collides with the hard pavement. His visor goes nuts, lights and warnings flashing at him from all corners, JARVIS’s voice ringing incomprehensibly in his ears, and Tony can do nothing but stupidly _stare_ until his brain can finally manage to catch up, and he realizes what has happened.

He is being held down—quite literally—by Loki, his wrists pinned down on either side of his head in the alien’s grip. It’s _embarrassing_.

 _Lord, Reindeer Games, at least buy me a drink first_.

He tries to wriggle free, but it’s pointless. Loki is much stronger than he looks, and he doesn’t even seem to be paying any attention to Tony. His eyes are fixed on something outside Tony’s field of vision, an expression of sheer and utter _bafflement_ contorting that pretty face of his.

He doesn’t seem quite so scary now.

Tony tries to wriggle free once again, and is subsequently forced to reassess his earlier statement. The fact that Cap managed to take this guy down at all is a testament to _Cap’s_ ability.

But then he does a backtrack, and yeah, Reindeer Games seems to be looking away, so it follows he’s looking at _something_ , and unless Tony’s mistaken, his hold seems to be slacking.

His attempts are more fruitful this time, and he manages to extract himself from Loki’s grip successfully. A point to for Stark.

He wouldn’t mind an applause, really. It is not every day that he is slammed on the ground by a crazy megalomaniacal alien terrorist and frees himself from it, but no-one, not even Loki, who was literally holding him down until a few seconds ago, seems to pay any attention to him. _Rude._

Rather, everyone is focused on the street before them. There’s no … Tony is reluctant to call it a portal, but it’s not like he’s ever seen a portal before, so yeah, there’s no portal anymore. In its stead, a petite woman stands in the middle of the street, in a garb that wouldn’t be out of place on a mediaeval fair.

She’s wearing a floor-length gown made out of some sort of pale blue velvet, except Tony knows his posh fabrics, and velvet doesn’t reflect quite _like that_ in artificial street light. There’s also some armour; a bronze chestplate carved with decorative whorls and swirls, as well as vambraces hooked to her forearms, but it all appears to be mostly ceremonial. The woman’s golden hair is half pinned-up in a complex style, while the rest tumbles down to her waist in thick golden curls.

Her face is expressionless, and really, really beautiful. As in, mind-bogglingly beautiful.

It’s kinda sorta not fair.

Her blue eyes are fixed on Reindeer Games, who has managed, it seems, to smooth his expression over into one of cool dispassion.

Tony doesn’t know who he thinks he’s fooling.

The lady still only has eyes for him, which is—well, _rude_. Iron Man and Captain- _fucking_ -America are here, the Black Widow is up in the Quinjet, yet the pretty lady seems to have picked the crazy megalomaniacal alien terrorist.

Oh … Black Widow.

Natasha’s voice is blaring in his earpiece, demanding explanation.

Well, Tony would sure as hell love one too.

“Stand down,” he tells her, “I’m curious.”

It worst comes to pass, and the lady is really here for Reindeer Games, well … surely the three of them can beat Loki and her, even together? That floor-length gown sure doesn’t seem conductive for battle.

He suddenly remembers Natasha kicking arse. Never mind.

The lady walks over to Loki—who is still on the ground, by the way, so yeah sweetheart, that indifferent facial expression you got? It’s not workin’ for ya.

When the lady gets down on her knees, on eye level with their friendly neighbourhood crazy megalomaniacal alien terrorist, Tony wonders faintly if this is a drunken dream.

When the lady takes his face in her hands and presses a kiss to his forehead, Tony _knows_ it is.

Captain- _fucking_ -America, unlike Tony, has no faceplate to conceal the sheer, overwhelming confusion all four of them— _Loki included_ , if his body language is anything to go by—must feel.

Yet he doesn’t swat the lady away, or … y’know. Murder her.

It’s fairly obvious that they know each other from before, hell it should have been fairly obvious the moment Tony saw the lady, considering they both look like they’ve walked straight out of a Shakespeare play while the Ride of the Valkyries blares in the background.

Yeah … after this is done, he is quitting alcohol for good. He knows it’s not going to happen, but a man can dream, right?

And then the lady actually speaks, and Tony resolves to forgo the drinking thing—he’s just going to check himself into an asylum. Perhaps they can solve his daddy issues.

“Sweetheart,” the lady says, blue eyes shining with unshed tears. “What has happened to you, my little one?”

Loki, it appears, it still to stunned for words— _me too, brother—_ and has evolved to the stage of just _staring_ at the woman like she’s an apparition that will go away if he so much as moves wrong.

What. The. Fuck.

Naturally, it’s Cap who snaps out of it first, though not by much. He opens his mouth and closes it several times, giving off the impression of a very patriotic, star-spangled fish, before he finally speaks, a soft, hesitant, “Ma’am?”

The lady tears her eyes from crazy megalomaniacal alien terrorist’s face, and smiles warmly in Rogers’s direction. “Yes?”

An asylum. Yeah, totally.

“I don’t mean to be rude, lady,” Tony begins, and in that moment, Loki surges to his feet with all the grace of a panther.

It’s an impressive feat, especially for someone who just got their arse kicked by Captain- _fucking_ -America quite thoroughly. Or maybe not so thoroughly. Thinking of his earlier leap and the sheer physical force that would be needed to keep Iron Man down like that … It urges Tony to wonder just how defeated their favourite alien murder-buddy is. He has an odd feeling they have escaped a trap. Looking back at it, it does seem to have been too easy.

Loki’s dark brows are drawn together, pale lips curled in disgust. “You are speaking to Frigga All-Mother, Queen of Asgard,” he hisses, somehow unhinged and haughty at the same time, a combination Tony didn’t think was possible. “Show some respect, _mortal._ ”

Ow. Hurtful.

Tony opens his mouth to say as much, but he’s interrupted by Frigga All-Mother— _thanks for the name, Reindeer Games_ —putting a delicate hand on Loki’s shoulder, and stepping forward.

“Now, darling,” she says, “he did not know. Surely we can forgive him for this small transgression.”

And then Tony honest-to-Lord watches as Tall, Dark and Murderous turns, face expressing what can only be described as anguish. He seems to debate something for a few moments, before saying something so quietly Tony would not have been able to hear if not for his suit’s advanced sensors.

“Forgive me, Mother.”

Yep. An asylum. A nice, comfortable asylum, the best money can buy. Pepper, Happy and Rhodey can even come visit him now and then. Yep.

“Erm …” Tony says, and hell, does it sound weird through his suit’s vocalizers. It wasn't built for _uncertain_. “If I may be so forward ... _what the hell_?”

Cap finally gathers, or rather, re-gathers himself, and speaks. “Look, ma’am … Majesty,” Tony can hear the slight questioning tone in his voice, “but _that_ ,” he points a Reindeer Games in all his metal-and-leather glory, “is our prisoner.”

The lady, Queen Frigga, smiles warmly. It reminds Tony of his favourite nanny, or even Mum. “That will be unnecessary, I assure you, sir.”

Wait, wait, wait. Did crazy megalomaniacal alien terrorist’s _mum_ just come here to _pick him up_? Is killing poor defenceless mortals like Asgardian preschool or something?

What the _fuck_?!

“Yeah, erm,” Tony speaks again. “No can do, Your Majesty.” _Lord_ , this is like that time he showed up drunk for a meeting with Queen Liz II, though also kind of _worse_ , because this lady is a queen of a super-advanced _alien planet_ , which is, from what little Tony has gathered on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s various reports that he has only bothered to skim over, an actual, functioning _absolute monarchy._ In space.

“Oh?” Queen Frigga curves a brow. “And may I inquire as to why?”

Yeah, the posh speech pattern and the British accent are really throwing him off here. Why the hell are aliens being British? “He’s got something of ours. We’d like it back.”

“You are speaking of the Tesseract, I gather,” Queen Frigga says, still smiling. “Fret not, mortal. The Cube shall soon be found and returned to its proper place.”

“Yeah, about that,” Tony cuts in quickly. “I’m sure we’d prefer if we were actually, y’know … _there_ , when it’s found.”

“And why would you desire that?” the queen asks mildly.

Cap, bless him, decides to try again. “Perhaps we ought to discuss this with proper authorities.” Ah yes. _God bless America._

“Yes,” the queen says after a short consideration. “That would probably be for the best.”

“So, if you’d just come with us,” Tony offers. “I’m sure Natasha will be _thrilled_ to have _two_ super powered aliens on her Quinjet.”

He wonders faintly if sarcasm is a thing on their planet. Apparently, it is, because the queen gives him a pointed look, and he can just _hear_ his mum’s voice in his head, scolding.

_Don’t you take that tone with me, young man._

Okay, then.

“Come now, darling,” Frigga says, directed solely at Loki, who seems very, very confused for a few moments, before trailing after his mother. The best parallel Tony can conjure is a _lost puppy_. So yes, totally something that one automatically imagines when thinking about psychopathic alien royals who are trying to take over the world.

Huh.

That is … very interesting, for sure.

In the end, watching Queen Frigga enter the Quinjet, all regal and royal, elbow in elbow with Loki— _her son—_ Tony gets an answer to his earlier question. Apparently, _yes,_ all Asgardians are just that damn pretty.

Nothing is fair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #ConfuseDontAbuse


	3. III - Enter Thor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens, and the drama commences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaack!
> 
> Thanks once again to all the wonderful people who left comments on the last two chapters, you guys are the best. 
> 
> And, without further ado ....

**III**

**Enter Thor**

The mortals’ little flying contraption is, Frigga has to admit, ingenious. The shape reminds her of a great bird of prey, poised and ready to fly away.

She enters, holding onto Loki. It looks casual enough, but her heart thunders in her chest at the closeness.

He is here. Her little boy is _here_. Different, and bitter, and angry, and jagged but _here._ Here, with her, at long last.

The two men from the outside escort them, and Frigga holds onto no illusions. They are effectively herding her and Loki in. No matter. She has found what is dearest to her heart.

A woman meets them upon entrance. Mortal, no doubt, dressed in a skin-tight leather bodysuit. Her stunningly beautiful face is framed by chin-long scarlet hair, full lips pursed, blue-green eyes narrowed. An assortment of mortal weapons litters her lithe body.

“Hey, Miss Rushman,” the man in the gold-and-red suit of armour greets, his tone suggesting familiarity and a certain dose of sarcasm. The woman sends a glare that would turn even an Æsir warrior’s legs to jelly his way, but he seems unaffected.

Frigga watches with interest as he reaches up and takes off the helmet. He is a handsome, middle-aged man, with dark, expressive eyes and carefully styled facial hair. It suits him, she decides. He flashes a cheeky grin in the woman’s direction.

The other man, in his bright colours, seems slightly exasperated.

“Not to be a party breaker,” the woman interrupts, “but is anyone going to give me an explanation here?”

The man in blue and red flicks his bright azure eyes in the armoured man’s direction. Frigga cannot see his full expression, but there’s uncertainty there. The woman is stone-faced, and the armoured man only seems amused.

“Right,” he says. His voice is much softer without the helmet. “This here,” he waves a hand in Frigga’s general direction, and she raises an unimpressed eyebrow, “is Queen Frigga of Asgard. She’s Loki’s mum.”

The red-haired woman’s perfectly stony expression doesn’t slip, but she does pause. “I see.”

“I believe you have me at a disadvantage,” Frigga speaks finally. “You know my name, yet I am unfamiliar with yours.”

“Right,” the armoured man says, wincing. “Sorry.” He flashes her a showman’s grin, executing an unnecessarily complex bow. “Tony Stark, A.K.A. the one and only Iron Man, at your service, Your Majesty.”

“It is my honour, Lord Stark,” says she. She would have curtsied, but that would have required her to let go of Loki. It’s irrational, she knows, but she has lost her son already. She will not risk it again. “Would that it were under better circumstances.”

“Likewise.” Stark’s grin doesn’t falter. “The living, breathing American flag over there is Captain Steven Grant Rogers, our very own Captain America.”

Frigga has never heard of this _Captain America_ , for all that Stark’s words make him seem like some sort of celebrity.

“It’s … er … very good to meet you,” the captain stumbles. Despite his large and imposing frame, he seems like a shy, reticent man, uncomfortable with attention.

She offers a smile to him as well. “Same to you, Captain Rogers.”

“And finally,” Stark continues, “this lovely specimen of human is—”

The lovely specimen interrupts with a painfully sweet smile in Stark’s direction, and Frigga can swear he winces. “Natasha Romanoff,” the woman finishes. “Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.” She cocks her head, unbowed before the Queen of Asgard.

Frigga feels her estimation for this Agent Romanoff rise ostensibly.

“Fury’s awaiting our arrival.”

With that, she turns on her heel and makes for the cockpit. Her movements do not lack the strength and deliberation of a seasoned warrior, yet the easy grace and fluidity of a dancer are also apparent.

“Right, erm …” Captain Rogers stammers again, gaze fixed on Loki. “You understand, Majesty, we couldn’t possibly have anticipated—”

“My arrival?” Frigga cuts in, smilingly. “No, of course not, Captain.”

“Well, we need to … erm …” Crimson flushes the lower part of his face, all that she can see of it.

“Yes?” she prompts.

She hears Loki’s impatient scoff behind her. “He means to tell you that they intend to tie me down.”

His voice, every bit as soft and melodious as she remembers, sends a jolt of warmth to her heart before she can fully comprehend the meaning of his words.

“Well,” Loki says, letting go of her, her skin crying out at the loss of contact, “better get it over with, do you not agree, Captain?”

She wants to protest, but the captain is right, she knows. She gives him a brief, clipped nod.

Loki’s face is expressionless as Captain Rogers leads him to one of the seats at the side of the flying contraption, and he allows himself to be bound. The ties are nothing he cannot break with even the slightest shift, but the Midgardians seem to be, apparently, unaware of this.

She is uncertain how she feels about that, other than the dread that fills her whenever she contemplates what might have happened if she hadn’t come.

Regardless, now is not the time for that. Agent Romanoff calls out a warning before the ship rises from the ground, primitive engines creaking and hissing under the strain. Frigga is well aware of Stark and Rogers’s suspicious eyes following her every move. She is the unbound one, after all. The unknown variable.

She comes to sit next to Loki, who is pointedly avoiding her gaze. It hurts, but it hurt so much more when she thought he was dead.

Now, so close, she can see what Heimdall meant when he said her son was weakened. Outwardly, or to someone who doesn’t know him all that well, he would appear at the peak of his strength, proud and unbowed. The prince of two royal lines.

But Frigga is not anyone, and she can see as clear as day the emaciated frame hidden underneath layers of leather and metal and fabric, the sickly, near-grey pallor of his gaunt skin, the dark bruises etched under his sunken eyes.

_Oh, little one_.

_What has happened to you?_

She wants to hold him, hold him and never let go.

She settles for the next best thing, hating, loathing, _despising_ how her hand trembles when she reaches for his cheek. She has to be strong, _needs_ to be strong, strong enough for the both of them.

“Dearest,” says she, opting for Asgardian tongue, Aardent, in place of All-Speak. Heat pools in the corners of her eyes, and she fights the tears’ desire to spill down her cheeks.

“There is nothing we have to say to each other.”

The words, cold and even, strike at her heart, more painful than a sword’s blade. She swallows and forces her voice to remain calm, her hand to stop shaking. “I do not believe that to be true.”

Loki’s jaw tenses, and he takes a shaky breath. “You ought to start. It would save us both a lot of …”

He trails off there, and Frigga raises a brow. “A lot of what, little one?”

“Don’t call me that.”

She feels the corners of her mouth curl upwards. “Whyever should I not? You are my son. My little one.”

He is still not looking at her, eyes fixed on some distant point in front of him. The act would be far more effective if she had not known him since before he knew himself, all his twitches and tells.

“You did not answer my question,” she reminds him, forcing calmness in her words.

“I am not,” he forces out, and then amends, “Your son.” There’s a slightest quiver to his lip, and it breaks her heart. “My mother was a filthy Jötunn wench; you ought not sully your good name by twining it with mine.”

Still, he looks stubbornly forward, eyes stormy.

“Do not say things like that,” she pleads. “I am your mother, no matter whose blood flows in your veins. You may denounce me, but I shall _never_ denounce you.”

Sharply, he turns. She can see the full extent of his weariness now, ashen skin drawn too-tightly over sharp bones, a hungry look in his eyes—muted blue, so painfully unlike the clear, emerald green they are meant to be—hungry for light and love and warmth as much as food and water. There’s a battle going on there, in the corner of her boy’s brilliant mind, and Frigga is so pitifully, pathetically _grateful_ , because a battle at least means he’s _fighting_.

_Come back to me, little one._

“Never,” she echoes.

“Do not lie to me.” His words are tight, clipped.

“I wouldn’t—”

“Wouldn’t you?” he demands, a low, hateful hiss. “Like you would not—” His voice breaks, and there’s so much anguish and festering hatred on his face. “Like you wouldn’t lie about—”

He grits his teeth together and shuts those frigid eyes, long fingers fisting violently in the emerald green fabric of his coat. His colour preference, at least, has not changed. It might be the only thing. When he speaks again it’s cold, so, so very cold.

“There is nothing we have to say to each other.”

He means for it to sting, and it does, but what he doesn’t include in his calculations is just how much she has longed for this day. Nothing he says could ever turn her back, not now when she has finally found him again.

“I beg to differ,” she says softly, letting a glimmer of amusement she doesn’t really feel imbue her voice.

He steadily ignores her.

“Such as,” she continues, reaching up, “what it is that you have done with your hair.” It’s impressive, frankly. Whatever he has put in it holds as solid as a rock.

Her tactic works, it seems, because Loki snaps his head to look at her, dark brows scrounged up in confusion. For a moment, just one small, precious moment, she sees past the cold, bitter exterior he has built op around himself, into the heart of the boy she knows so well and loves so dearly.

She still remembers when he arrived into the family’s private breakfast parlour one day, several centuries ago, with his dark curls furiously straightened and combed behind his ears. When she sought an explanation, he just hinted vaguely at being too old and grown for them. Frigga has lamented the loss of the curls ever since, even if she had to admit the style made him look rather handsome, and that isn’t just her motherly affection speaking.

“I feel as though I could prick myself on the spikes,” she continues.

His expression, if possible, shifts into one of even greater bafflement, thin, bone-white lips parting. She will admit she enjoys the elicited reaction a tad _too much_.

She opens her mouth to say something else, when thunder cracks, flashing the viewports at the front.

“Where is that coming from?” Agent Romanoff mutters from the cockpit. Stark and Captain Rogers, who have, up until now, spoken quietly, both look around.

Loki snaps from his confusion, weary eyes searching wildly. “I thought the All-Father sent you?”

Frigga, bracing herself for what is to come, answers, “I sent myself.”

Loki gives her a strange look, but then the whole ship shakes with the force of something … _someone_ … making a heavy landing. Around Frigga, the three Midgardians are all watching carefully. Stark’s helmet is back, covering his face, and Rogers has taken up his round shield.

Even Agent Romanoff’s hand is twitching towards her weapons.

Stark goes forward then, the soles of his metal-clad feet clanking loudly on the floor.

“Wait,” Frigga orders without thinking, but Stark ignores her, pressing his first to a control panel at the side of the ship. The gates fall open like gaping maw, and with a heavy _thud_ , her eldest son drops.

His blue eyes search the ship, linger on her and fix on Loki. He steps forward, intent written all over his face, when Frigga rises to her feet.

“Enough!”

Both Thor and Stark pause.

“If you please, we could resolve this, as civilized beings?” she says, pouring all of her queenly authority in the suggestion. “Now, Thor, please stop before you brutalize the poor man.”

“Mother,” Thor says, straightening. He is trying to intimidate her. It only makes her laugh. “You are here against the All-Father’s express orders—”

Frigga doesn’t even blink. “Can someone please close the ramp? Wind blowing in all our faces is hardly conductive to good discussion, now, is it?”

She doesn’t stop to see who it was that obliged. “Now, Thor, sit down.”

“I am here for the Tesseract and Loki, Mother. I see one. Please, produce the other, so that we may all go home,” Thor demands, Mjölnir weighing down heavily in his hand.

“All right then,” she says, smiling. “Loki, my sweet, where is the Tesseract?”

Loki stares at them with those weary eyes, before his lips stretch into a terrible, triumphant, _false_ grin. “I do not know,” he whispers.

Thor goes red with rage. “How can you not—”

“Thor please,” Frigga sighs. “Do you take your brother for a fool?” She turns to Loki. “I expected as much.”

“How can he not know?” Thor thunders. He is always so large, her eldest. Larger than life, louder than the thunders he commands. Brighter than the sun.

“Well, Point Break,” another voice interjects. Stark. He has taken off his helmet again, but there is no mistaking the defensive stance. To his right, Captain Rogers is still clutching his shield, eyes wary. “It makes sense. If you’re already planning on getting yourself captured, might as well make sure the ones capturing you can’t get their hands on the bit of intel you actually want to keep from them.” He grins at them all, bright and confident. “Am I right, Reindeer Games? C’mon, say I’m right. I love being right.”

Loki’s lip curls in disdain. “Ever so perceptive, Mr Stark.”

“I know,” the other replies, choosing to ignore the implied insult. “I’m awesome like that. I’ve got to give it to you, though—you almost had us fooled. You know what gave you away?”

Loki leans back in his seat, crossing his legs in a falsely casual gesture.

Stark’s grin only widens. “It’s when you pushed me down to get me out of your mum’s way. Or get your mum out of mine … whatever. But why the hell would you wait to do that until Her Majesticfulness came here? Unless …” he pauses for drama, “you never wanted to win in the first place. Lord knows your mum’s arrival threw you off your game. Trust me,” he adds conspirationally, “it threw all of us off our track as well.”

Loki rolls his eyes, and the familiar gesture sends a jolt of emotion she can’t even begin to untangle to her heart.

“In fact,” Stark continues, oblivious to her torment, “I’d say you could get up from that chair at any given moment.”

“Brilliant,” Loki drawls, tone dripping with sarcasm. He fiddles with his restraints, an obvious taunt. Stark doesn’t react, but Captain Rogers is tracking Loki’s hands with his eyes, clearly uncomfortable.

“Jeez, Lokes, you’re making me blush,” Stark returns sweetly.

“None of this is of any import,” Thor interjects, booming voice instantly drawing everyone’s attention. His hair is wild around his face, tangled from flight. She smothers the urge to cross over to him and comb it into something presentable. “Loki’s place, and that of the Tesseract, is on Asgard. Midgard cannot contain either.”

“And you’ve done a marvellous job with both, haven’t you?” Captain Rogers snaps.

“Do not presume—”

“Thor!” Frigga whips. “That is enough. This is best discussed on solid ground.” She turns to Captain Rogers and Stark. Agent Romanoff is still in the cockpit, but Frigga has no doubt she is following every word. “I am not wrong, gentlemen, in assuming you are not the capital authority on this planet?”

“Well,” Stark says, smirking, “I _am_ very rich.”

Captain Rogers rolls his eyes. “You’d be correct ma—Majesty. We’re taking you to Director Fury of S.H.I.E.L.D. The director isn’t …” he pauses, searching for words. “There is no _capital authority_ on Earth. No centralized government. We’ve got couple hundred countries, each with their own leaders. S.H.I.E.L.D. is an organization that, among other things, deals with extra-terrestrials on US soil.”

“Extra-terrestrials being you lot,” Stark cuts in.

“Very well.” Frigga nods her assent. “Take us to this Fury, then, and we shall see what comes of that.”

She raises her chin, meeting Stark and Rogers’s gazes with the unwavering confidence of the Queen of Asgard.

Stark smirks, dark eyes crinkling with an entirely inappropriate amount of excitement. “Indeed we shall, Your Majesty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah ...   
> Did it ever occur to you that All-Speak was technically never explicitly said to exist in the MCU?
> 
> Well, it's great and all, but it seems supremely dumb for the Æsir not to have a language of their own ... or several. 
> 
> All credit for Aardent goes to the absolutely brilliant and all-around wonderful GalaxyThreads, whose works are some of the best stuff I have ever read, and is generally a really lovely human being who deserves the world and more. (I have like ... 90% of their MCU works in my bookmarks, so ... yeah)
> 
> Until next week, my darlings!


	4. IV - Asgardians on a Plane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The highly anticipated Frigga vs. Fury, from Tony's POV, and therefore including a whole new set of Stark-provided commentary ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *crashing sounds*  
> *more crashing sounds*  
> *the crashing sounds continue*  
> *an idiot stumbles into the frame and grins ... well, idiotically*
> 
> I'm baaaaack!
> 
> My eternal gratitude to everyone who commented and kudos-ed. I love you guys.

**IV**

**Asgardians on a Plane**

Tony is in awe.

It’s hard not to be, really, seeing Queen Frigga in action. The lady clearly has some experience managing big personalities. Tony, as the proud owner of one of the biggest, most irreverent and all-around annoying personalities in the world, can attest to that.

And Rogers is no different, even if he expertly hides behind modesty and a do-gooder attitude. But silent waters can carve through hills, and Tony has no doubt that the man can be just as forceful as he is, if not as flashy.

And then, of course, there are the queen’s sons, the overlarge, overexcited golden retriever and the aloof, dignified black cat.

… well, someone had to say it.

Three. Now there’s three of them.

And the third does nothing to crumble Tony’s _all Asgardians are just that pretty_ theory, with his sky blue eyes, and golden hair, and perfectly chiselled jawline. Must be something in the water on that planet of theirs.

Frigga reminds him of Pepper, really, if instead of Tony, Pepper had to deal with two super-powered alien gods, one a megalomaniacal psycho, the other an overgrown fella with one hell of a temperament.

The gods in question are all in the back of the Quinjet, and Tony is not-so-subtly watching them.

Reindeer Games, bless his emo soul, is still sitting in his place, even though he all but told them he can get away whenever he wants. Really, he’s the best behaved alien around here.

Perhaps Tony should get him a treat.

Frigga, Tony’s new role model, is sitting next to him, speaking something in a language he doesn’t understand.

Discreetly, he has JARVIS run a scan.

_“There is no match, sir,”_ he hears the familiar automated voice in his ear. That makes sense, he supposes. His lip quirks at the thought—Asgard’s very own Klingon.

Reindeer Games does his best to ignore his mum, which isn’t very well. He twitches, pale eyes shifting to look at her more often than not, but he doesn’t speak. Whatever it was that the queen has used as leverage to make him talk before isn’t working now.

Or maybe it’s the fact that his big brother is looming over him with his arms crossed, massive battle hammer hanging on a leather cord wrapped around his wrist, a murderous look following Loki’s every breath.

Yeah, Tony wouldn’t be speaking either if someone kept staring at him _like_ _that_.

“Well, J,” he says, smiling, “I’d say it’s apparent who’s the black sheep in the family.”

_“If you say so, sir,”_ JARVIS replies, and Tony grins wider, pride warming his insides. Making AIs is no easy feat, much less AIs with such a subtle sense of humour. In many ways, JARVIS is so much more than Tony possibly could have anticipated when he first wrote his code. Years of improvements and additions, years of being treated like a trusted best friend … it made JARVIS so much more human than most people Tony knows.

The rest of the flight to the Helicarrier passes in deceptive peace, the three aliens on-board alternating between silent and speaking in hushed voices in that unfamiliar language of theirs, Natasha and the second pilot in the cockpit, he and Rogers keeping an eye on their extra-terrestrial friends.

Their arrival is … dramatic. There’s a strike team armed to the teeth waiting to escort Loki into whatever containment cell Fury has concocted.

They don’t, however, anticipate the two extra Asgardians who’ve tagged along. Fury, in all his black-leathery glory (and frankly, this man can give Reindeer Games a run for his money), remains stoic when he sees the other two.

What proceeds is very entertaining to watch. Queen Frigga unleashes her sharp, pleasantly-disguised tongue upon Fury, and Tony’s delight grows as he sees the director’s skin pale progressively, he can’t be sure whether with rage, irritation or fear.

In the end, they decide to move the discussion for the _inside_ of the Helicarrier, as the humans’ poor mortal bodies can’t take the conditions up here for too long.

The image of Loki walking among the buff S.H.I.E.L.D. people is just as fun. Despite the fact that they are some of the best, if not _the best_ the Earth has to offer, they still look ridiculously outmatched compared to Reindeer Games, who towers over them all. The queen allowed them to contain her son, but she drew the line at actively chaining him, and as he’s managed to regain most of his poise since his mum unexpectedly crashed his party, the faint smile curving his thin lips helps sell the whole image.

But Tony has met him, and he’s met his mum, and yeah, he knows for sure who he would prefer to have as an enemy.

_Sorry, Lokes_ , he thinks, _but you never stood a chance._

So Loki is dragged away with far more grace and dignity than anyone being dragged into a S.H.I.E.L.D. containment cell has any right to, while Thor and Queen Frigga are escorted somewhere by a visibly confused Nick Fury.

So, basically your average Thursday.

Half an hour later, Tony has abandoned the suit, and joined Fury, Romanoff, Rogers, Thor and Queen Frigga at the conference table on the Helicarrier’s bridge.

Fury plays some barely-salvaged surveillance footage from the night of Loki’s arrival to them. It’s choppy and unclear, the sound is muffled, and every now and then the picture goes colourless or vanishes completely, but it’s better than nothing.

Some things become instantly clear to Tony.

First, his dear Reindeer Games is one _hell_ of an opponent. The efficiency with which he dispatches trained S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives is … terrifying, especially considering he’s using only melee weapons. The way those few he takes control of just … suddenly start obeying him … even more so.

Secondly, _he looks like hell_ in that footage. Shaky on his legs, sweating, circles as dark as his hair etched under his sunken eyes, too-pale lips … if Tony thought he looked unhealthy in Germany, he is due for rude awakening now.

Thirdly, he is suddenly far more wary of the two other Asgardian royals on this ship. If all their people are trained like this … he looks at Thor, huge and brawny, thick arms rippling with muscles, the battle hammer … it’s not hard to imagine what sort of style _he_ utilizes, and it must certainly be different from his baby brother’s twirly, lightning-fast _thing_.

The queen, on the other hand … he’s still not sure she _is_ a warrior, but the probability of that is rising exponentially. He’s taken the time to read through all the S.H.I.E.L.D. files on the New Mexico incident.

No, he does not want to take his chances with either of them.

Speaking of the queen … her eyes are fixed on her younger son’s face in the footage. At first glance, she seems perfectly composed, unlike their buff blond friend Point Break, who’s all red and angry, but Tony’s seat at the circular table gives him the unique position needed to see her hands, hidden under the table. She’s twisting her fingers together, her shoulders are a bit _too_ tight, her beautiful face a bit _too_ expressionless.

“Well then?” Fury says once the footage has replayed for the third time. His one eye is dangerously narrowed, but there’s unmistakable uneasiness to his posture as well. Understandable, Tony supposes.

It’s not every day that you show the super-powered monarch of an alien planet pics of her kid killing innocents.

The queen shuts her eyes, a millisecond too long to be a blink. “How many?” Her voice is hoarse.

“Romanoff?” Fury calls.

“Eighty people,” Natasha replies dispassionately. “Including Germany, as well as those who died when the facility crumbled.”

The queen’s golden brows shoot up. “Only?”

The reactions of everyone around would have been precious—Natasha’s cool indifference, Rogers’s indignant spluttering, Fury’s calculating … well, _fury_ —if Tony also wasn’t feeling his carefully lidded anger rear its ugly head.

“Forgive me,” the queen says, perfectly composed. “I never meant to disparage your people’s loss. But I know what _my_ people are capable of, and the abilities my son possesses. I am glad it was not more.”

As far as apologies go … it’s not the _worst_ Tony has ever heard, but it is also far from the top ten.

Natasha, of course, catches onto Queen Frigga’s meaning when no-one else can. “Explain.”

Well … that might not be how _Tony_ would go around speaking to alien royals, but then again, he threw up on Queen Elizabeth II’s shoes, so he supposes he can’t really be taken into account as someone who actually does know what he’s doing. _Fake it till you make it._

The royal in question doesn’t seem offended, even when her son bristles, but without a word, without a look from Frigga, just a raised palm, Thor settles.

Okay, first Reindeer Games, now Point Break? It’s _eerie_.

“What I mean to say, my dear,” Frigga says, and if Natasha finds it weird to be addressed as _my dear_ , she doesn’t show it, “is that this easily could have been a lot worse.”

“Regardless,” Fury growls. “I mean no disrespect, your Majesty—”

“Yet your tone is dripping with it,” the queen says sardonically, with a smile that reminds him far too much of Loki.

The sort of _enemies don’t touch me with a ten foot pole unless you want a dagger in your throat_ smile that sends chills down his spine.

“ _Regardless_ ,” Fury pushes on, “my planet is in danger. And I don’t take kindly to that sort of thing.”

Anyone else would be quaking in their boots. _Tony_ would be quaking in his boots, even though he’d never let it show. Frigga, however, merely smiles again. “I understand your concern, Director Fury.”

“Yeah, I don’t think you do, _Majesty_. I don’t give a damn how much worse it _could have_ _been_ , I don’t give a damn what your kid could have done … this is the second time in two years that Asgard’s errant royals have come to _my_ world to wage war. Perhaps your people up there haven’t gotten the memo, but Earth isn’t a dumping ground for your children.”

Queen Frigga’s smile doesn’t waver. “You are very lucky, director, that it is I who sits here, and not my husband. He wouldn’t take kindly to such speech.” She pauses, rising a brow. “Me, however? I am more tolerant.”

Fury’s lip curls. “Are you threatening war? Because it’s too late for that. Your _son_ already did that.”

“War?” The queen rises to her feet. She’s much shorter than Fury, yet still, she makes him seem like a child in comparison. Distantly, Tony wonders how old she is.

“He’s killed eighty of my people. He’s stolen a valuable artefact—”

“Stolen?” the queen’s brows shoot up again, and Tony feels a chill of foreboding. He doesn’t know how or what, but Fury has misstepped.

“Yes,” the director’s one eye narrows, “stolen.”

She frowns, cocking her head. It could almost be mistaken for actual confusion, were it not for the predatory gleam in her eyes. “I am afraid I do not understand.”

Fury’s face pales in rage. “We’ve seen the footage _three times_ , Majesty. It’s fairly clear what happened.”

“I fear you’ve lost me again, director,” the queen says, shaking her head. “How can my son possibly steal something that already belongs to him?”

“ _What the hell are you talking about?_ ”

“Why, the Tesseract, of course.” Her eyes glimmer dangerously. “The artefact that has been in our family for several generations, placed on Midgard for safekeeping by the All-Father himself, some thousand years ago.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Tony sees Rogers’s eyes widen in realization.

Shit … that’s what happened to him, didn’t it? That’s how Tony’s old man found the damned cube, he was scouring the oceans for Cap.

_Damn_.

“The Tesseract was found by S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Fury snaps.

_Technically, ‘twas my father dearest._

_And Aunt Peggy._

“Oh, I’ve no idea how it came to be in your possession,” the queen concedes. “But from what you are and are not telling me, I gather you have stolen it first … from _us_. How can the Prince be at fault for retrieving it?”

_Oh, so we’re using titles now?_

_Then I’m Tony “Fantabulous” Stark, the Iron Man._

“On Earth, we have a saying,” Fury drawls. “ _Finders, keepers_. Odin left the Tesseract with us for a thousand years. I’d say that he’s wasted his right to it.”

“A mere thousand years?” the queen asks, smiling far too smugly. “Your short lifespans blind you, director. The Tesseract belongs to the All-Family, the House of Buri.”

“So, is this a proclamation of _war_ , then?” Fury asks, unblinking. Even Tony holds his breath.

“No.” The queen cocks her head again. “Loki did not act in Asgard’s name when he arrived here. I am simply trying to make you understand that he has more right to that artefact than you and your S.H.I.E.L.D. can ever dream of having.”

Tony breathes out a sigh of relief.

“However,” she speaks again, the tone decidedly sterner, “he is still the Prince of Asgard. And his being damaged in any _will_ be considered an act of war … and Asgard shall respond accordingly. And believe me when I tell you, director … your people have advanced rapidly, admirably even, since I last visited Midgard, but in spite of that, should Asgard decide to intervene, there will be no war.”

“And what will there be?” Natasha asks softly, the first words anyone but Fury and Frigga have spoken in a while. It startles Tony. He seems to have forgotten nearly everything but the Queen of Asgard and the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.

The queen levels a look at Natasha—there’s admiration there, but also bone-deep determination. “A war, Agent Romanoff, is a conflict of equals, or close enough. Should Asgard’s armies descend upon Midgard, it will be … annihilation.”

_Fuck_.

“Is that a threat, Queen Frigga?” Fury says, impossibly, lethally calm.

“I lost my son once, director, I will not lose him again.” The queen raises her chin, and Tony can’t explain it, but he _feels_ the impact of her words. “It’s a promise.”


	5. V - Interrogation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki and Frigga finally talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dear Lord, the response to the last chapter left me speechless. I love all of you so much. Thank you.
> 
> Okay, this is where I really start to make use of the 'Public Displays of Dysfunctionality' tag, but it's most certainly not the last time I'll have a need of it.
> 
> Also, just in case: this one deals with a bit of suicidal idealization, just a bit really, but make sure to stay safe if that's not your cup of tea. 
> 
> And, without further ado:

**V**

**Interrogation**

Frigga does not _enjoy_ threatening the mortals. She does not relish the rush of power and superiority that comes with it, brought on by some twisted combination of a higher rank and a longer lifespan. It is, after all, only the Norns’ will that she was born the Princess of Vanaheim, that she was crowned the Queen of Asgard, and not some nameless Midgardian girl.

If anything, guilt gnaws at her heart, or it would have, if her emotions are less engaged at the moment. But her children are the foremost in her mind. All of Midgard can come later. 

It is not the mortals’ fault. Fury only wants to protect his world. It is hardly a desire she can fault him for. If Vanaheim were in danger, she knows she would do anything to save it.

Or Asgard, she supposes.

But … she also knows that, if Loki is to be the price of Midgard’s safety, then Midgard can burn in Hel for all she cares.

Let it never be said that the All-Mother cannot be vicious.

The mortals are silent at her proclamation. She scans their faces. Disbelief on Captain Rogers’s, cold calculation on Agent Romanoff’s, open interest on Stark’s, carefully contained rage on Director Fury’s.

She cannot make herself face Thor. He has grown to love Midgard and its people, her eldest. With bitter amusement, she wonders if Loki’s arrival here gave him any joy, when it meant he was allowed to return.

She lowers herself into her chair regally, even as her arm itch to wrap around her torso. She is suddenly so very, very cold.

“Of course,” she says, fighting to keep her voice calm, “none of that needs to come to pass. There is nothing that would give me greater joy than to see Midgard thrive.”

“You’ve given us a lot to think about, Your Majesty,” Fury says, sounding very weary. It must be a heavy burden to bear, Frigga decides, to defend a planet with a hundred different cultures and governments, whose rulers squabble like children in the mud.

“It is only fair, director, to give you a warning.”

Fury nods, expression grim. “I suppose that’s better than just attacking outright,” he says sarcastically.

She chooses to ignore it, and rises fluidly to her feet. “Now, if you will excuse me, I should like to speak to my son.”

Stark snorts. “Which one?”

_The one you’ve locked up like a rabid animal_ , she wants to snarl.

“That can be arranged,” Fury says, sending a scalding glare in Stark’s direction. The man doesn’t even flinch, flashing yet another dazzling smile in the director’s direction.

There’s iron in there somewhere, as his moniker suggests, hidden behind the cocky attitude and the scathing words. Frigga can appreciate that, if nothing else.

She is hardly a stranger to keeping up appearances.

“It needs not be _arranged_ , director,” she says imperiously. “I do not require protection of your armoured goons when talking to _my son_.”

It’s comical, really, seeing the expression upon the director’s face.

“All right, then,” Fury says, apparently having come to his decision. “Romanoff?”

Agent Romanoff rises from her seat with all the grace of a panther.

Frigga turns to Thor. “Stay here, dearest.”

Thor’s brow scrounges up. “That is not wise, Mother,” he warns, crossing his arms over his armoured chest. “Loki is—”

“Dangerous?” she finishes, lips curving slightly. “And you are not?”

Thor stiffens, blue eyes narrowing. “That is different.”

“Of course it is,” she concedes. “But do you really think your brother would hurt me?”

And there it is. Thor, who used to throw himself headfirst into any sort of endeavour with no consideration for the circumstances or the consequences, falters. She is proud, she really is.

But still, his jaw sets, determination blazing. “You ought not take any chances, Mother.”

“You’ve grown wiser, dearest,” Frigga tells him, raising her hand to press it to his cheek, “but there is still much to learn.”

With that, she follows Agent Romanoff through a weave of cold, utilitarian grey hallways, committing as much of it as she can to her memory. Romanoff stops before a thick metal door, guarded by a pair of Midgardians clad in sparse armour that can protect them from some of the mortals’ firearms, but would do nothing against a good Asgardian blade, and swipes a plastic card through a machine wedged into the wall beside to open it.

The cage they have put her son in is … interesting. It’s a circular construct in the middle of the round chamber, walled off by thick glass panes.

Loki is pacing in it, casually at the first glance, but Frigga can see the tightness in his posture where no-one else can. He turns to look at her, all sharp edges and bitterness. His expression is strangely closed off.

She takes it for a good thing. Were he completely comfortable in his plans, he would be sniping and taunting, all accompanied by that vicious grin he is so fond of.

He doesn’t say anything, muted blue eyes following her approach carefully. How did they change colour as drastically as that? But then again, all of him looks washed-out.

Frigga ignores the swelling knot of emotions in her stomach in favour of picking up her skirts. Loki twitches, an aborted attempt to dive for cover.

_Oh, what have they done to you, my little one?_

“I want to enter,” she tells Agent Romanoff. The woman gives both Frigga and Loki an appraising glance, before she nods and makes for the control panel at the side of the room. She presses a few buttons, careful to shield her exact actions from their sight with her lithe body.

Frigga isn’t pleased, but she will admire Romanoff’s ingenuity, at least.

She steps into the cage, and Loki instinctively steps back. The sound of the door sliding back into place is the loudest sound in the room, yet it’s still drowned out by the sound of her heart thundering.

For a few too-long moments, they are both silent.

Loki breaks first.

“You should not have come,” he says in All-Speak. His voice is hoarse and deliberately flat. It’s like the expression of his face, the whole of his bearing. She really did catch him off-guard, did she not? It is good to see she is not losing her edge.

“Oh?”

“Now they have us both in a cage,” he says. “Two for the price of one.”

Frigga smiles, and slides back easily into Aardent. “It wounds me to think that you do not believe I would walk into a much more secure prisons than this one without the hope of ever getting out, to be with you.”

There is a quicksilver flash of emotion over his face, gone before she can decipher it.

“But,” she continues, like there was no interruption, “I don’t for a second believe you are not exactly where you want to be.”

He works his jaw, gaze sliding down in irritation. His hands clench and unclench at his sides. “Why are you here?”

“I came to see you. Is that so hard to believe?”

“No,” he snaps. “Here. On Midgard. Against the All-Father’s orders, no less, if what I gathered from Thor’s incessant babbling is correct. Every now and then he _does_ happen to say some clever thing or the other.”

“Do not insult your brother,” she says in a chastising tone.

“I’m merely pointing out the obvious,” he says, managing a strained, tight-lipped smile.

“Still as sharp-tongued as ever, I see.”

He shrugs. “I try.”

She remains silent, probing for further reaction. If it were anyone else standing here with him, Loki would have stayed silent until Ragnarök, fuelled by the sheer force of spite. But she is not anyone, and her son can scarcely bear five minutes of quiet before he speaks again.

“Why are you here?”

Still, she watches, quiet. She knows how to make him talk. He’s insecure right now, uncertain in his schemes. Frigga is the unknown variable, something he did not take into account when formulating his plans. He knows not what to think, how to act.

And there is nothing her dear Loki hates more than _not knowing_.

“Odin sent Thor, that much is clear,” he continues, as she knew he would. “Whether to correct the mistake he made when he stole me from Death’s grasp on Jötunheim and put me down like I deserve, or to drag me before him in chains so that he can do it himself, I know not.”

Frigga feels her eyes widen in horror, even her carefully crafted façade falling apart before the onslaught. “How …” she stammers, “how could you possibly think that?”

“But then again,” Loki continues in a deceptively light tone, “mayhap he just wants his tame little Jötunn pet back.” His too-pale lips spread in a terrible caricature of a smile that makes his face resemble a skull. “Too bad this pet bites.”

Frigga’s throat constricts, heat pooling in the corners of her eyes, and she wants nothing more than to leap to him, hold him until they’re both crying and he knows, with absolute, unshakeable certainty, that he is loved.

But she doesn’t. She can’t.

This jagged and bitter thing that’s taken possession of her brilliant boy’s visage would only build up thicker walls.

“You are wrong,” she tells him softly, with no strength left to disguise the pain in her voice.

“Am I?” he replies, one dark brow shooting up.

“You are. And you know I never hesitated to tell you so, in those rare occasions it was true.”

She takes a step closer, and this time, he doesn’t step back. His eyes are wide, and he is ever so slightly shaking. The cold, indifferent façade is slowly crumbling.

He doesn’t recoil when she reaches for his face, runs her fingers over the too-sharp line of his cheekbone. He barely breathes.

“We are here to bring you _home_ ,” she says, uncaring that the moisture in her eyes is so visible. Nothing seems important anymore, nothing save Loki’s laboured breathing and crumbling expression.

“What home?” he says, too softly for it to be as biting as he had probably intended it to be.

It cleaves Frigga’s heart into two.

“Stop lying to me,” he continues, _pleads_. “Stop, I can bear it no longer.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispers. “I am not. Do you not pride yourself on being always able to tell a truth from a lie?”

It was the wrong thing to say, Frigga realizes, as she watches any vulnerability that has slipped past his shields shift into frigid fury. He swats her hand away.

“Well, clearly not!” He laughs, a terrible, broken thing. “How ironic must it be … the God of Mischief, the God of Lies … unable to see that _he_ was the greatest lie of them all. His very existence. Everything— _everything_ he believed to be true.”

A single tear slips down his ashen cheek, and he wipes at it furiously with the back of his hand. He laughs again, bitter and maniacal.

“Just as well,” he breathes. “After all is said and done … after Midgard is bowed before me … I shall make my own truth. And Odin … and Thor … and all of Asgard shall come to regret tossing me aside. Tossing me into the Void.”

His eyes are wild with rage and pain, and the intensity of it takes Frigga’s breath away. She always knew he was capable of strong emotion, hidden as it always was behind a carefully constructed, calm surface. But this is beyond anything she had ever witnessed of it before. Anything he’d ever _let_ her witness before.

“And me? Shall I come to regret anything?”

Loki’s lip curls. “You, All-Mother, will curse the day Odin brought me to you. You will wish he had had the good sense to bash in my skull with a frozen rock instead. Believe me, it would have been kinder. To us _all._ Now, though … no power in the Nine can save us.”

She buries the pain down, slams the lid over her boiling emotions, and smiles. Small, broken, but genuine.

“Then I am sorry to report, my sweet one, that you are doomed to fail.” She doesn’t give him a chance to recuperate, to reply to her statement with yet another wave of poison.

She picks up her skirts, and nods to Agent Romanoff, who pushes another button and the glass door slide open. Without turning to look at him, Frigga says, “I love you, little one, and I always shall. You could bring half the universe raining down on us all, and I would still love you the same.”

With that, she leaves.

Romanoff waits for her at the foot of the stairs. She is quiet until they leave that infernal prison chamber.

When she does speak, her voice is a picture of sincerity and gentleness. Frigga is not fooled.

“I am sorry,” Romanoff says, then pauses before continuing. “Did you at least get anything useful out of him?”

Frigga’s blood boils at that, at the mere idea of using her son as a source of information, but she forces her breath to calm. She _likes_ Agent Romanoff, and she knows that, for her, the fate of her realm hangs on that one question.

“Nothing you would recognize as such,” she says. “But … I need to see that sceptre.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ... next one is from Bruce's POV, and I'm really looking forward to it.   
> Until next week, my darlings!


	6. VI - The Glowstick of Destiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce did not sign up for this shit.  
> Frigga continues to be BAMF.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *horn blowing*  
> *Martin Freeman's voice narrating*  
> "She has returned, and bears with her the next part of this shitshow."

**VI**

**The Glowstick of Destiny**

It’s such a flashy thing.

That’s, maybe, what irritates Bruce the most.

A long, curved golden handle, engraved with runes and whorls the meaning of which escapes him, two razor-sharp blades at its peak, holding between them a glowing blue gem like a pair of pincers.

The gem, more than anything else, gives it away as alien. Even to one less sensitive to such matters than himself, the steady, faint blue glow is disorienting. Were one to look deeper, perhaps try to analyse the gold-like metal the thing is crafted of, one would find oneself at a loss. Whatever it is, the material is not of this world.

Then there is also the fact that Bruce has clearly seen their alien friend skilfully wield it to a great degree of success. Bruce has held the sceptre, and he can confirm that it’s harder than it looks.

He’s … well, frankly, he’s pissed.

Not that he would ever say it. Fury would probably take it wrong, and Loki would suddenly find himself with some company in that cage. Bruce would much rather avoid being locked up with the homicidal alien.

Tony Stark, on the other hand … he is … unexpected, to say the least. Bruce has heard much about the man, as has every being on Earth, probably.

He wants to huff a laugh. That expression, he finds, gets a whole new meaning now that they are dealing with extra-terrestrials.

Regardless, Tony is a pleasant surprise. Much of his manner is exactly what the press and the media portrays it to be—arrogant, irreverent, cheery to a fault. What they left out, apparently, is passionate about his work, a genius in every sense if the word, welcoming even to a monster hidden beneath a scientist’s skin.

His interest in the Other Guy doesn’t offend Bruce as much as most people’s does. Maybe it’s because Tony seems equally intrigued and impressed with _Bruce_ and his work, maybe it’s because he doesn’t shy away and dance around the topic, maybe because it’s born out of admiration, and not fear.

Whatever may it be, Bruce finds himself—in spite of all odds—liking Tony Stark very much.

The man in question is swiping at his screens, ranting about something Bruce recognizes as a thing he would have genuine interest in if his mind wasn’t otherwise occupied.

But … the sceptre.

It makes the hairs at the back of his neck stand, occasional shivers crawl up his spine. He wonders how Loki endured holding that thing for so long. Maybe it doesn’t have the same effect on him, whether it’s because he is an alien, or that he is its master. Maybe … maybe _it_ is half the reason for the madness in his eyes.

It’s driving him insane. Beautiful, elegant, alluring, terrifying, _wrong_.

So, so, so very wrong.

It brings out all his worst tendencies, darkest thoughts, hidden desires. Hidden for a reason.

He hates the thing, and he craves it.

Insane.

The hypnotic blue glow of the gemstone, ever-steady, lulls him into a near-dream state if he dares to look at it for too long, and it’s getting increasingly harder _not_ to look. The gem _demands_ his attention, and every time he lets his thoughts dwell on it for a bit too long, it gets harder to wrench himself away from its sickly influence, and harder still to resist its pull again.

He wants to grab the damned thing and throw it in the ocean, bury it beneath a mountain of rock, get it out of his sight, take it, hold it, cherish it …

“Hey Bruce,” a voice reaches his ears, but it’s so very distant, so very far away, like he’s speaking through water. And the words are a jumble of incomprehensible syllables.

“Bruce!” Something shakes him, and a shadow obstructs his view of the gem. Dazed, Bruce looks up, to the concerned face of Tony Stark.

Tony’s eyes are wide, brow creased. _Worried_. He’s _worried_.

The expression looks strange on his face, so used to cocky smirks and careless grin. For a moment, Bruce wonders if this is his true face, beneath all layers and masks. It suits him strangely well, he thinks.

“Tony?” his voice sounds hoarse and gravelly, like he hadn’t spoken in an age.

Tony’s features visibly slump in relief. “You with us, buddy?”

Bruce nods, dazedly. Everything around him seems indistinct, his world is limited to the sound of his own, laboured breathing, and Tony’s gentle touch on his forearms.

“I … I am.” He breathes out slowly. “What … what happened?”

Tony runs a hand through his hair, already unruly. “No idea,” he admits. “Actually, I have a few, but none of them confirmed.”

Bruce sends an unamused glare his way, and Tony repents. “You were just … staring at that thing, and wouldn’t react when I called you.”

“Shit,” Bruce gasps. “Isn’t this thing used for mind control?”

“Well, yeah,” Tony says, smiling grimly. “But for that, you’ve got to get Reindeer Games to poke you with it.”

Bruce frowns. “Reindeer Games?”

Tony waves a careless hand. “Reindeer Games, Lokes, Rock of Ages.”

“You mean … the homicidal alien Fury’s got locked up in my room?” Bruce asks, feeling his lip curve in amusement despite everything.

“The one and only,” Tony says, grinning.

“Well,” Bruce groans, “however it is used, I’ve got no interest in getting anywhere near it ever again.”

Slowly, the world comes pouring back in. The soft beeping of machinery, the ever-present thrum of the Helicarrier’s engines, the fluorescent lighting.

Tony smiles grimly. “I’m afraid you’ll have to.”

“Yes,” Bruce says distantly, “I think I will.”

The doors of the lab choose that moment to slide open, revealing Natasha Romanoff, who had apparently switched the pastel-coloured, almost girlish dress she’d worn in Calcutta for a skin-tight leather tactical suit, followed closely by a regal-looking woman who seems to be cosplaying _Game of Thrones_.

Oh. Queen Frigga, then.

When the Other Guy first came into existence, Bruce thought that his life couldn’t possibly get any weirder. Now, though, he’s standing inside a flying fortress, behind him rests a creepy alien staff, next to him is _Tony Stark_ , and the deadliest spy in the world just strode in, bringing along a millennia-old monarch from a different planet.

Bruce wishes he could say he is surprised, but, well … the truth is, he isn’t. He’s not sure anything can surprise him anymore.

“Your Majesticfulness!” Tony exclaims, grinning widely. Bruce is … ninety-seven percent sure that ‘majesticfulness’ is not a word, but Tony, apparently, decided to go full-out Han Solo here.

The queen doesn’t seem amused, but she also doesn’t smite Tony where he stands, so … that’s a start, he guesses?

Besides, the stormy expression on her face was there before Tony went and made a fool of himself, so maybe he’s not the reason for her sour mood. As a matter of fact, from what Tony told him, she has been to visit Loki— _her son._ Lord, that is weird to even _think_. Regardless, Bruce would be willing to wager that is the reason.

“Lord Stark,” the queen says, inclining her head. And thus, the _Game of Thrones_ imagery is complete. He’s just waiting for her to add _‘of Winterfell’._

“Allow me to introduce my good friend, Dr Bruce Banner,” Tony says, slinging an arm over Bruce’s shoulders.

Frigga offers another nod. “Doctor Banner,” she says. His title sounds foreign on her tongue. Bruce wonders faintly what they call their scientists on Asgard.

“Your Grace,” he says. “How may we be of help?” Oh, great. Two minutes in her company, and already he is beginning to speak like a Shakespeare character.

“If you would be so kind as to direct me towards the weapon my son brought with him when he arrived on Midgard?” the queen says, and even though it is masked as a polite request, Bruce knows it’s anything but.

“The sceptre?” Tony says, brow scrounged up. “It’s not an Asgardian thing, then?”

The queen pauses. “No, Lord Stark. It is not of Asgard.”

“Where’d he get it then?” Tony asks. “It’s not _ours_ , either. The materials it’s made of can’t be found on Earth. We checked.”

“I know not,” the queen whispers. “Loki was lost to us for over a year. Before word came of his arrival here, we thought him dead. Where he was and what he did …” she shakes her head. “I suspect we shall have to find out, if we’re to untangle the mystery of the sceptre.”

Bruce burns with curiosity. _How could you think he was dead? What happened?_ But there’s tightness around the queen’s eyes that speaks of unbearable sorrow, and he’s not inclined to push, least of all because she is basically a goddess.

He just nods, and points to the infernal thing. “It’s weird,” he tells the queen. “Hypnotic. I …” he worries his lip between his teeth. “I’m not sure what happened.”

“It seemed to … draw you in, somehow,” Tony says, for once, perfectly serious. “Hypnotic, as you said.”

The queen nods. A few quick strides later, she’s at the table, running a long finger up the sceptre’s carved handle. Golden light seeps out of her hand. It reminds him uneasily of the power Loki wields—though, to be fair, chances are high it’s the same thing.

He shoves his curiosity down, and watches in breathless anticipation as Frigga focuses the golden light on the glowing blue gem. Her brow creases in concentration, eyes narrowing. The intensity of her power increases.

Watching it, Bruce feels like music is building up to a zenith, even though total silence reigns the lab. He’s not sure what he’s waiting for, though.

The zenith does come, but it’s a bit anti-climactic. Frigga lets out an angry hiss as her power rebounds off the gem, bathing the whole lab in sharp, golden light for a short moment.

And then it’s gone.

Huh. He thought there’d be an explosion. The only sign that anything is amiss is the sight of the queen’s eyes wide with sudden understanding as she observes the gem with new wariness.

She mutters something in a language Bruce doesn’t understand.

“What’s the matter?” Tony asks.

Frigga is still staring at the stone as if transfixed. “Little one,” she whispers, and Bruce knows it’s not meant for any of the other people in this room, “what has happened to you?”

She closes her eyes for a fraction of the second, and Bruce watches in amazement as her entire countenance changes, like a cool, dispassionate mask slotting in place.

A moment later, and the ever-calm Queen of Asgard is back.

“There has been a new development,” she says. “That thing … I would suggest not touching it. I need to speak with Director Fury. I need to tell him—”

“Need to tell me what?” a voice cuts in, and Bruce turns to see Fury striding in, Thor at his heels. “Your Majesty,” he adds as an afterthought.

“Mother,” Thor says, frowning. “Is that Loki’s sceptre?” He takes a few steps closer and reaches out for the weapon.

The queen’s lips thin. “I would not call it _Loki’s_ , dearest. Unless he has somehow stumbled upon one of the Six _by accident_.”

Thor’s hand instantly recoils, like burned, his face bleached of all colour.

Bruce has no idea what she is talking about.

“For those of us who aren’t Asgardian and don’t understand space-speak, if you please?” Fury demands, single eye fixed on the sceptre.

The queen raises her chin, hands folding elegantly over her stomach. “Tell me director, when you pulled the Tesseract out of its hiding place, did it ever occur to you to wonder _what_ it is?”

Fury’s eye narrows. “It’s a power source.”

Frigga, to Bruce’s surprise, chuckles. “A _power source_.” Then, all her humour seems to drain away. “Isn’t that quaint.”

“What is it?” Natasha asks carefully.

The queen smiles grimly. “Once, long ago, before this universe existed, there were six singularities … forged into objects of immense power known as the Infinity Stones. The Tesseract … why … the Tesseract is the Infinity Stone of Space.”

“So, you’re saying,” Natasha interrupts, “that we had one sixth of one of the most powerful forces in the universe?”

“No, Agent Romanoff. You had one sixth of _the_ most powerful force in the universe.” She narrows her eyes, lips curling into an expression of disdain. “And you used it to … what, exactly?”

A beep sounds, and startles all.

“Actually, I can answer that,” Tony says, turning a monitor towards them all and pointing triumphantly at the schematic of a huge gun-like weapon. “What is Phase Two, exactly?”

Fury pales.

“Phase Two is when S.H.I.E.L.D. uses the Tesseract to make weapons,” a new voice interrupts, and Bruce turns to see Captain America drop one of the guns from Tony’s pictures on the table. His face is grim, lips cutting a thin line across his face. “Sorry, the computer was working a little slow for me.”

“Explain,” Bruce demands.

“It was the only—” Fury starts, but Tony cuts in.

“Are we seriously discussing this? Why is it a bad idea to use alien tech to make weapons of mass destruction? Have you missed the last half a century of pop culture?”

“Last year, thanks to you,” Fury whipped his chin in Thor’s direction, “we not only learned that we’ve got neighbours, but also that against them, we’re completely, and hopelessly outgunned. Can you blame us for wanting to protect the Earth?”

“Asgard wants nothing but peace with your people,” Thor protests.

“Debatable,” Fury growls. “Have you forgotten who sits in a cell on this Helicarrier?”

“My brother’s actions—”

“And you’re hardly the only ones out there, are you,” Fury snaps.

“What makes you think these weapons won’t be used against our own people?” Rogers demands, eyes blazing with righteous fury. “It would hardly be the first time. You used _HYDRA’s_ schematics to make these.”

“ENOUGH!”

All heads turn to Queen Frigga, who regards them all with an imperious look in her eyes. “Fools. You squabble like children.”

“Mother—” Thor starts, but the queen cuts him off with a wave of her hand.

“No, Thor, I won’t hear it. Now,” she glowers dangerously. “Had this debate not dissolved into a screaming match, you would have heard that this weapon,” she points to the sceptre, “contains the Infinity Stone of Mind.”

Oh.

Oh, _fuck_.

“It makes … sense, I guess,” he tries. “Loki used that sceptre to influence people’s _minds_.”

“What does this mean?” Natasha asks tentatively.

Frigga sighs. “Many things. The Mind Stone was lost for a very long time, Agent Romanoff. That both it and the Tesseract have emerged at the same time, on the same world … it is not a good sign.” Her lips thin. “Most of all, I should like to know how my son came to be in possession of such a powerful artefact, especially one that has been lost for millennia.”

Tony curves a brow. “I don’t suppose he could have just stumbled upon it while taking an evening stroll.”

“I sincerely doubt that, Lord Stark,” Queen Frigga says tiredly. “Which begs the question of his army, the Chitauri. Where did he find them. How did he win their allegiance. Is that allegiance even in his hands.”

Thor nods sagely.

“So, what I’m gathering here is …” Fury makes a face. “We don’t know anything. And, there’s also the small fact that he got himself captured on purpose.” He rubs his temples.

“Indeed, director.” The queen looks supremely uncomfortable, then. “He said … he told me that _‘no power in the Nine can save us’_. Not _you_ … _us_.”

“You think …” Rogers says, furrowing his brow, “you think someone else is pulling the strings.”

“It’s a possibility,” Tony grants, biting his lip.

“I don’t buy it,” Natasha says.

“There’s only one way to find out,” Fury shrugs. “Call in the interrogators.”

They don’t believe it, Bruce can tell. He’s not sure he himself believes it. It could be just a wild wish of Frigga’s heart—what mother wants to see her child become a monster? It’s much easier to believe someone else is behind all this.

Frigga shakes her head. “Straight-up interrogation will gain you nothing, director. Loki is both too clever to evade their questions, and too proud to openly admit he might not be in control.”

“Then what do you suggest we do?”

“My mother ought to speak with Loki,” Thor booms. “If there is anyone who can coax the information out of him, it’s her.”

Frigga smiles, though it’s not particularly mirthful. “I did teach him all his tricks.”

“All right then,” Fury concedes. Bruce can tell it’s more for want of actual options than belief in Frigga’s theory.

But, so far, the queen has been the only one to get any genuine reaction out of her wayward son, and it’s not like they have anything better to do.

She raises her chin, eyes blazing in determination, and swoops out of the room. Bruce follows after her—they all do. Passing the doorway, he allows himself a small smile.

Tony was right about one thing—the Queen of Asgard is _badass._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I just ... I love Bruce Banner so much.
> 
> Also, I was never aware of the ridiculous differences between British and American spelling before I was forced to put my works from my UK-set computer to my US-set Ao3.  
> Oh, well.


	7. VII - And The Walls Came Tumbling Down

**VII**

**And the Walls Came Tumbling Down**

The arrangements for her conversation with Loki are hastily made on her way to his cage. Frigga suspects Director Fury would have liked to pull them all back into the conference room and discuss this, to make a plan … but apparently, he is wise enough to understand that Ragnarök itself would not have stopped her march.

So the plans are made in haste. Thor and the others are to wait in a different chamber, observe the conversation through recording devices. The only instruction Fury offers Frigga is to keep to All-Speak, rather than Aardent, which she has so far used when talking to either of her sons.

She can do that.

Loki’s eyes light up with interest when she enters again, and he observes with only mild curiosity as one of the faceless agents open the cell door for her, and have it closed.

His eyes.

His muted _blue_ eyes.

She had … she’d originally assumed it to be a consequence of whatever had changed him so in the Void, whatever had made him so exhausted and sickly, but now … the bright blue eyes of his thralls haunt her.

She is a fool.

When the agent leaves, one of Loki’s brows shoots up, all surprise he’ll allow himself to outwardly show.

She opts for the same tactic as the first time, and waits for him to speak first. He sees her ploy, and this time, the silence persists for ten whole minutes before Loki finally gives in.

“Back so soon?” he sneers, the lights in his eyes dancing with mad delight. “Did you miss me so terribly?”

“More than you can possibly imagine,” Frigga says. “I have lived a very long life, and suffered many losses … but none of them come even close, I know now, to losing one’s child.”

He inclines his head, pale lips curving in a sick mockery of a polite smile. “It is good then, All-Mother, that your only son is well and hale. You’ve lost him for all of three short days. How lucky he is that the All-Father favours him so. I dread to imagine what anyone else’s punishment would have been, for slaughtering hundreds of Frost Giants like animals in the span of _minutes_ , and, of course, _much_ more importantly, disobeying his precious, precious commands.” The smile never leaves his face. “Do you not?”

“It hurt, little one, when Thor was banished.” She sighs. “My heart ached for him, my mind feared for his well-being. But at least … at least I knew he was alive.”

“How fortunate,” he says, low and venomous.

“Indeed.” She lets her gaze fall down. “But it hurt so, so much more when my youngest let himself be devoured by the Void.”

Loki lets out an indignant hiss. Frigga ignores it.

“And I was left wondering—how could it all possibly have gone so very wrong? Not three days past, were a happy family. How was it possible that my sweet boy … who used to forget things like sleeping or eating when consumed by study … who would hide in my skirts as a child … who could talk himself out of nearly every piece of mischief he and his brother took part in … my sweet, bright, brilliant boy … how could he possibly have believed the Void’s embrace to be more welcoming than my own?”

She closes her eyes, and doesn’t even care when a hot tear treks its path down her cheek.

“How could I possibly have failed him so?”

Finally, she opens her eyes. Loki has retreated several steps, his back nearly touching the cage’s glass walls. His face is near-blank, save for the slight tremors of his jaw and the widening of his eyes.

He looks so young then. It was so easy to forget, the first time, when he had cloaked himself in barbs and acid, but he is stripped of that mask now, and it hits her like a lightning bolt.

“And then … they tell me my sweet boy is alive after all. And I had never known such hope in my entire, very long life.”

“Your son is dead,” Loki speaks. His gaze pointed at the ground. “He died at the Bifröst, drowned in his own ambition and despair. The creature that crawled out of the Void bears his face, yet is little more than shadow.” His voice is quiet. Broken.

And it is so much worse than his venomous jabs, because those were intentionally designed to cut, but this … this is no wordsmith seeking to slice, or a cornered animal lashing out with rage. This is just … Loki. Small, and hurt, and broken, telling the truth as he sees it.

She is nearly overcome with the urge to gather him in her arms and do … something, _anything_ , to fix this.

 _I am fixing this_ , she thinks. _I am._

“I grieve for his death, then,” she whispers. “I had so much time to think, since I lost him. Think … what I would tell him, if I ever saw him again.”

“What?” The world is barely above a breath.

Now it is Frigga’s turn to avert her eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks. “That I have failed him. That I have been wilfully ignorant. That I had known he was struggling, and I never did anything because … because I thought he knew. How much I loved him. I would tell him that … that although his brother is my child by blood, he is the child of my soul. The best thing that has ever happened to me.

“That I am so, so sorry for never telling him any of this. Because I thought we had time, but I was blind and stupid, and he paid the price of my arrogance.

“And then … then I would get on my knees and beg for his forgiveness.”

And with that, she lowers herself on the cold metal ground, and finally allows herself to look up.

Loki has abandoned every semblance of composition, pressed against the glass like a caged animal, visibly trembling. Tear-tracks on his face shine in the fluorescent light.

“Don’t …” he breathes. “You can’t …”

“I’m so sorry, little one,” Frigga whispers.

“No … Amma …” he slides gracelessly to the floor next to her, shaking like a willow, “please … I’m sorry, I’m sorry, you can’t … don’t kneel before a monster, I beg of you …”

“A monster?” Frigga whispers, reaching for his gaunt face. “I am kneeling for my son. My brilliant boy.”

He just shakes his head, as stubborn as ever, thin fingers twitching violently in the fabric of his clothes.

“Hunt the monsters down and slay them all,” he says softly, eyes wild. “Must learn to fear … he promised … he promised …”

Something clenches painfully in her chest, and she pulls him closer. His hands clamp clumsily around her waist, and he buries his face in the silken shawl that hangs loosely from her shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers into his hair. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“He promised,” Loki says softly, but his shivering slows somewhat, and he relaxes a fraction. “He promised.”

“Thor was wrong,” she whispers. “So very wrong. We all were, and we failed you. And I am so, so sorry.”

“He will kill them all, kill _us_ all …” Loki continues, speaking more to himself than her. “And he’ll be right … monsters and beasts.”

“Oh, little one,” Frigga sighs, “how can a monster be even half so clever as you are?”

“Stupid,” he slurs. Her shawl is damp with both their tears. “Stupid. Couldn’t see the lie …”

“Shhh, sweet one. It’s not your fault. It’s mine.” She presses a kiss to the top of his head.

“Why?” he asks out of a sudden, a desperate wail in place of a demand. “Why?” He raises his head from her embrace, trembling and shivering, and so, so _small_.

Frigga can’t bear to look at him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I don’t have an explanation. Not one that would satisfy you. It seemed reasonable at the time.” She lets out a sob. “You were mine. Whose blood you bear was unimportant, because you were _mine._ ”

“But not anymore,” Loki chokes out, broken and resigned.

“Always,” she corrects gently, one hand coming up to stroke his wet cheek. “No matter what.”

Loki’s eyes widen, growing as round as saucers. “Why? You know … you _know_ the things I’ve done.”

Frigga waves her head. “I told you, dearest, you could bring half the universe raining down upon our heads, and you would still be mine.” She smiles, careful and gentle. “Do you know why?”

In place of an answer, he shakes his head again, dark locks swaying, even as firmly styled as they are.

“Because I love you,” she whispers. Promises. “Always. No matter what.”

That, more than anything causes him to break down, and break down he does, turning from a would-be conqueror to a broken, sobbing mess in her arms. She holds him throughout it all, soothing where she can, as a millennia’s worth of grief comes pouring out.

She doesn’t know how long it passes before he is calm enough to be coherent, and even then, he still clings to her. It reminds her of the way he used to hide behind her skirts as a child, so slight and thin it seemed like the slightest breeze would carry him away. It made the contrast between him and the confident, brash Thor all the more jarring.

“Tell me little one,” she tells him, words barely above a breath, “where have you been?”

Loki’s eyes grow wide, and he violently shakes his head.

“Please, darling,” Frigga pleads. “I just want to help you.”

“You can’t,” he hisses, lips tight. “You can’t. No-one can.”

“Loki.” She smooths back an errant ebony lock. “I refuse to believe so. But we cannot ever find out if you do not tell me.”

“Please, Amma,” he whispers, fresh tears staining his face. “Please … anything but that. I can’t …”

“Can you answer some questions at least?” she asks. “Just nod or shake your head. Can you do that for me?”

Although it seems to physically pain him, Loki gives her a shaky nod.

Frigga breathes out a sigh of relief. Now, she just has to ask the right ones. She cannot help the warm hope that blooms in her chest, even as it aches.

“After you let go on the Bifröst … did the Chitauri find you?”

He shakes his head. “They are but one force of many.”

Frigga fights a sharp inhale of breath. “And this many … do they share a master?”

A nod. His while body convulses, and for a moment, she thinks he will collapse right then and there.

“And … this _master_ ,” the word tastes foul on her tongue, “do they command you as well?”

Another nod, barely perceptible.

“Did they hurt you?” She holds her breath.

He bites into his lip hard enough to draw blood, eyes shut firmly against the too-bright light. But he nods.

Frigga’s raging emotions go dangerously calm.

“How?”

She will _tear them apart—_

Loki looks up at her, eyes wide and desperate, the thin trail of blood on his chin distorted, mixing with tears.

“I’m sorry,” she breathes, “I’m sorry, sweet one. Did … did they give you the sceptre you wielded here on Midgard?” She can’t force herself to say _your_ sceptre.

A nod.

“Do you know what hides within it?”

Loki grits his teeth together, his fingers curling and uncurling in the fabric of her gown. “I … have my suspicions,” he says at last. It seems to cost him, his whole body seizing up, shaking so violently she thinks he might break something.

“But you don’t know for certain?”

Negative.

“And … the sceptre … it’s not just a weapon, is it?”

Another negative.

“It’s a means of control,” she says. It’s not really a question.

For one short, _excruciating_ second, he’s still. His skin is hot and clammy to the touch, like he’s running a fever. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Frigga’s concern gnaws at her, but it’s shoved down by the more pressing matters.

And then Loki nods, and Frigga’s world comes crashing down.

“One … one more question.” She abruptly realizes she is shaking as badly as he is. Tears clog her throat so much that she fears she shan’t be able to ask this final question, the most important one of all.

“Who?”

His eyes lift up to her, still muted blue, but otherwise clearer than they have been since she first laid her eyes upon him on Midgard.

“The … Mad … Titan.”

And then he arches back and _screams_ , an unearthly sound of pure agony. Hot, crimson blood sprouts from his nose and the corners of his lips, staining his alabaster skin, pouring down onto their laps and the immaculate metal floor.

“Mercy,” he breathes, “please … have mercy …”

She realizes with a jolt that he is not speaking to her, but to the Titan, and oh Norns, _Thanos_ had her son, Thanos the Mad Titan, and whatever she had imagined before hearing the name suddenly seems laughably optimistic in comparison.

Still pressed against her, Loki is screaming, his own blood pooling around them. His skeletally thin fingers are tangled in his hair.

Oh, Norns.

She feels herself growing hysterical.

 _How do I fix_ this _?!_

She shuts her eyes fighting for the calm, clawing her way into rationality.

Finally, she reaches for her seidr, and the world becomes nothing more than twining of various energies. She feels the mortals running about in their flying fortress, she feels Thor and the rest watching with panicked interest.

And she feels Loki, bright as moonshine, and the Mad Titan’s rotten, barbed hooks in his mind.

She directs a tendril of seidr towards one, and the moment her golden power touches the hook, her vision goes white with agony, and she feels she might be screaming as well, but she grits her teeth together, and slowly, ever so carefully, detaches the loathsome power from her son’s mind.

The second one is faster, but no less painful.

And the third. And the fourth.

There is no time here, in the blazing world of energy. Just her, and Loki, and the Mad Titan.

Thanos’s power makes her stomach churn in disgust and bile rise in her throat. It’s oily and decomposing and _wrong_ , like a wound that has been left to fester for too long.

But she would endure much worse for her children without a second thought.

One by one, the insidious hooks vanish, crushed beneath her golden seidr, until all there is left is Frigga, and her son.

His breathing is laboured, he is shivering, he is bathed in his own blood … but when he looks up at her with wild, red-rimmed eyes… his irises are a beautiful, bright, emerald green.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is probably my favourite chapter of this thing.  
> I also feel like we should keep a count of how many times the members of the Asgardian Royal Family have screaming matches in public.  
> See you all next week, from Natasha's POV!


	8. VIII - The Hawk Comes Home

**VIII**

**The Hawk Comes Home**

Natasha Romanoff, born Natalia Alianovna Romanova, has seen quite a lot of blood and gore in her day. Was the leading cause for a big chunk of it, to be frank.

So what she sees in Fury’s Hulk-cage is far from the worst of it, yet it hits her in a way nothing (well … _nearly_ nothing) before has. Perhaps it’s the surreality of it—Loki has only been sorted into the _enemy_ category two days ago, but he is already dominating it, and yet there he is, curled up in a pool of his own blood, shivering like a willow in the wind, face buried into his mother’s skirts.

She casts a quick glance to the people around her. Fury is as stony as ever, Rogers looks faintly green, Bruce’s brow is creased, Stark’s expression is carefully blank.

A whirlwind of emotions passes on Thor’s face, love and rage and guilt and sorrow all battling for dominance, but none of them coming even close to a win. She winces when she feels the slight tang of ozone in the air.

Queen Frigga does not bother with a greeting when they rush in. Her shoulders are slumped with exhaustion, dark shadows painted beneath her eyes. Large spots of the fine blue fabric of her dress are stained red.

She just curves a brow in Fury’s direction, a challenge.

Despite all that is happening, Natasha is impressed. She wouldn’t think that a queen would have any formal training in the art of interrogation, and yet … Maybe it is not a matter of training. Maybe it is just a mother knowing her child.

It’s not like Natasha would know. She has no memory her mother. Whether she had forgotten all on her own, or if the Red Room had something to do with that, she doesn’t know.

She doesn’t really care, either. She feels like she _should_ , but it’s hard to miss someone you never knew. And Natasha has better things to do than dwell on the past. She _has_ to have, because if she lets herself remember … well. That wouldn’t go well for anyone involved.

Loki rears his gaze up when he senses their presence, and even Natasha has to wince. The entire lower half of his face is splattered red, his eyes are a mess of broken blood vessels, among which perch irises of brightest green she has ever seen.

Well, shit.

She doesn’t miss the slight flinch elicited from him when his gaze falls in Thor, even if she is sure all the others have.

Alien royal family drama. If she could scream to the skies in frustration, she would.

“Agent Barton,” Loki breathes, voice hoarse from screaming. Natasha’s eyes flicker down to the blood on the floor. Well. That, at least, should not come off as a surprise to anyone.

And then she registers what he has said, and feels her vision go red.

“They … will come,” Loki continues, “for me.”

Oh.

“Can you order them to stand down?” Fury asks, lethally calm, but Natasha knows the burning rage that hides beneath.

Loki nods, then closes his eyes and slouches, like the motion alone was too much in his weakened state.

Lord. What have they done to him?

“I can … what time is it?”

Fury names a figure, and Natasha continues observing the would-be conqueror.

“They are on their way, then,” he says. “I know a frequency … I can tell them …” He grits his teeth together. “Dr Selvig … and the Tesseract … the portal …”

Natasha stiffens in alert. “Where?”

“New York,” Loki breathes, “Stark Tower.”

Somewhere behind her, Stark hisses a curse. Loki, against all odds, offers him a smile. It’s terrifying, with his bloodied visage. “You have achieved an impressive feat, Mr Stark, with the powering of that building.”

Stark stumbles over his words, a rare occurrence indeed. But then again, Natasha figures it’s not every day one receives a back-handed compliment from a not-so-evil alien prince.

“Right,” Fury says. “You can stop Barton? Free him?”

Loki frowns. “I can tell them to come peacefully. As for freeing …” he bites into his lip. “I was never told how.” He considers. “A blow on the head might work.”

Natasha nods, and pulls out her own communicator.

She is aware of the silence that follows her as she opens the cell door and kneels before the downed Asgardian, presenting the device like a great treasure.

To her, it is.

_Oh, Clint._

Loki accepts with a mumbled thanks, and despite the situation, Natasha can’t help a twang of amusement she feels at it. Like a kid pretending to be nice because his mum is right there.

His fingers shake so badly he can barely type in the number, but he does it with the kind of grizzled determination that reminds Natasha of herself.

 _“Sir?”_ Clint’s confused voice comes out after a brief period of static, and Natasha can weep for the familiarity.

“Agent Barton,” Loki says. His free hand balls into a fist so tight that his knuckles go white. “The plan has changed.”

Another pause, another bit of static. _“What do we do, boss?”_

“You will make contact with the Helicarrier before landing, and land on the designated spot. Then, you will come out of the jet without your weapons. You will—” he pauses, face twisting in pain, “—you will cooperate with the agents sent to retrieve you.”

 _“Okay,”_ Clint replies in his tone of _I don’t know what the fuck you are doing, but fine_. Natasha feels tears pooling in her eyes, and wipes at her face furiously with the back of her hand. She has to be strong, now. For Clint. _“Are you okay, though, boss? You sound a bit ragged.”_

Isn’t that the understatement of the year.

Clint’s voice is full of warmth, and it twists Natasha’s stomach, because she knows it’s manufactured. Loki’s eyes, on the other hand, travel uncertainly from one person to the other, like he’s not quite sure what to do with that concern.

“I … I am fine, Agent Barton.”

_“Are you sure?”_

The confused look goes around again, and Natasha feels a girly giggle bubble up in her throat. She clamps down on it, but the sensation is still there.

“I … yes. Better than I have been in a while.”

_“If you say so. Our ETA is twenty minutes.”_

“Very good, Agent Barton,” Loki says. “And,” he hesitates, “I am sorry.”

He closes his eyes, a second too long to be a blink.

_“Sorry? What the hell do you have to be sorry for, boss?”_

Disgust pools in Natasha’s gut, and from the look on his face, Loki feels the same.

“Goodbye, Agent Barton.”

And like that, the connection is gone.

“Do not harm them,” he says quietly, to no-one in particular. “None of it is their fault.”

“We are aware,” Fury says grimly. “Romanoff, Captain, with me. Stark, see what you can do about that sceptre. And you …” Loki doesn’t even bother to hide the flinch, “you need to go to the medical.”

Loki’s reaction is almost comical—slight widening of his now-green eyes, looking down on his messy and bloodied person, then back up, now accompanied by a slight blush on his alabaster-pale cheeks.

He silently offers Natasha her comm back. Except now there’s blood on it. Alien blood.

Huh.

“Keep it,” Fury says. “We need you to be able to order Barton and his men around if the head blows fail.” He frowns. “Your Majesty … I understand that this might not be your priority right now, but I’d like you to be here as well. If you were able to break _him_ out of this … _Mad Titan’s_ control, it makes sense you’d be able to do the same for Barton and the rest.

“Thanos,” the queen whispers. Loki flinches, and she immediately looks guilty.

Fury nods. “We’ll have someone look into the name.”

“You won’t find anything,” Thor speaks. “He is considered to be nothing more than legend, even on Asgard.”

Considering the state of his little brother, Natasha wants to say something pointed, but she keeps it to herself.

“I cannot—” the queen begins, but Loki stops her with a few soft words in a language even Natasha can’t recognize.

The queen answers, and Loki says something else. Then she turns to Fury.

“Very well, director.” With great reluctance, Loki manages to untangle his fingers from her gown, and she presses a gentle kiss to his brow.

“Thor, you and Banner can help him to the medical …” Fury begins, then frowns. “You said Selvig’s in New York?”

A nod.

“Hill,” Fury says into his earpiece, “set course for New York, Stark Tower?”

 _“Already did,”_ Maria answers.

“The sceptre,” Loki breathes. “It can … shut the portal down. A failsafe.”

Fury nods. “When is Selvig going to open it?”

Loki shakes his head. “There is over five hours left.”

Fury frowns, and reaches for the bug in his ear. “Maria, how what’s our ETA?”

_“We’ll make it, sir, but only just.”_

“Something, at least,” Fury sighs. “All right. Everyone knows what they need to do?”

A murmur of assent. The queen brushes her younger son’s hair from his face and mutters something quickly in the Asgardian language, then follows after Fury, Rogers and Natasha.

The last thing Natasha sees before the doors close after her is Loki’s panicked look when faced with his big brother, and then she is off.

Ten minutes later, she watches with trepidation as an unmarked black jet lands on the Helicarrier’s surface. Its engines ring like doomsday drums.

Her hands twitch towards her weapons as the ramp comes down, and then—

Clint comes out.

He is dressed in his usual dark tactical suit, save his bow and quiver. His blond hair is ruffled, his eyes are a haunting, unnatural blue. He looks a bit exhausted, but other than that … healthy. Alive. _Here._

The others pour out after him, all blue-eyed, all unarmed. Their faces give nothing away.

Natasha moves closer, until she can look Clint in the eye. Still, he doesn’t react. Not a word.

“Hey, Clint,” she says, softly, and then she swings, and he falls down.

She sets her feet into a combat stance, half-convinced the rest of the thralls will attack then and there. From the corner of her eye, she sees Queen Frigga summon a dagger with a flash of golden light, Rogers grip his shield tighter, and Fury fumble for the communicator.

But the rest don’t make a single move, save Clint, who pulls himself up into a sitting position with a groan.

“’Tasha?” he slurs, rubbing the back of his head. “Is that you? What … what _happened_?”

A weight she didn’t even know was pressing her vanishes, and she doesn’t care for propriety as she crouches down and pulls him into a hug.

Somewhere in the background, Fury gives the order, and one-by-one, the other thralls are brought down by Cap, Fury and the queen, but Natasha only has a mind for Clint, and the warm hug he is eagerly returning.

“Nat,” he whispers, “Nat, Nat, Nat …”

“It’s okay,” she promises. Comfort was never one of her stronger suits. “It’s all going to be fine, trust me.”

“You really believe that,” Clint says, sounding disbelieving himself. “Who are you, and what did you do to my Natasha?”

She chooses to ignore the joke. “I do.” The optimism surprises even her. One would thing she would be more apprehensive in the face of an alien invasion, but in no apocalyptic movie she’s yet seen have the heroes had help from the leader of the opposition.

She almost snorts. _Heroes_. Is that what she is?

The word _hero_ and _Natasha Romanoff_ don’t go together. She has long understood this.

“Nat, you don’t understand, I _saw_ what he was planning, and how is he going to do it …”

Natasha smiles softly. “Open the portal in New York? Over Stark Tower?”

“Yes … wait, how …?”

“Hush,” she commands. “I’ll tell you later. Now, Clinton Francis Barton, if you ever _dare_ to do this to me again, I swear to Lord I’ll skin you alive.”

Clint laughs, and it’s the most beautiful sound Natasha has ever heard, “I’ll keep it in mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just ... *wipes tear* I just love Natasha SO MUCH


	9. IX - Science Bros

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BRUCEANDTONYTONYANDBRUCEBRUCEANDTONYTONYANDBRUCEBEINGADORABLE - my thought process while writing this chapter

**IX**

**Science Bros**

There isn’t much Tony can do now, and he hates it. Hates being useless. Hates it with a burning passion.

But now neither he nor Bruce are needed to track down the Tesseract, and if all goes well, Iron Man won’t have to battle a bunch of aliens as a part of Fury’s super-secret boy band.

As for the sceptre itself, and the gem within, he is extremely reluctant to study it, or even touch it. _Hearing_ about its capabilities is one thing, but seeing it for himself … not even he is mad enough.

He hopes.

If his good buddy Lokes didn’t lie, they can use it to close the portal. Hopefully, it won’t even come to that. Frankly, after all the shit he’d witnessed in these past few days, Tony is ready to wash his hands off the Infinity Stones for good. The Asgardians can take them both.

He suspects Fury would disagree, and hell, maybe one day, a few years in the future, Tony will wake up in the middle of the night and curse his past self’s foolishness for letting a pair of such powerful, fascinating items slip through his fingers.

Oh, well.

It’s not like it would be the first time.

So, with nothing to do, and hating every moment of it, Tony makes his way to his new favourite person on this entire flying boat. Bruce.

Last he’s seen of the scientist, some hour ago, Fury had him escort the feuding alien princes to the medical wing.

Tony has no idea where that might be, but a quick search of his newly hacked-into S.H.I.E.L.D. files solves that issue for him, and in to time, he’s at his destination.

A dashing smile and a quick autograph signed are all that is needed to convince the hulking boulder of a man who guards the doors to let him in. He wanders for a bit, before he finds his friend.

Bruce is standing before a one-way mirror that shows a bare hospital room, and their new alien friends inside. Thor is easier to spot of the two, tall and broad. He is speaking and gesticulating vividly, but Tony can’t hear what about.

Loki is sitting all curled up on an examination table, staring emptily into nothing in particular. The blood is gone, at least, but that’s just about the only improvement. In place of the elaborate armour, he is wearing a simple green shirt and black trousers that do nothing to conceal how emaciated he looks. His narrow, bony shoulders are hunched, spindly arms hugging his knees upon which his chin rests. Raven hair is falling about his hollow face in soft curls that brush his collarbones. The dark circles under his eyes are more prominent than ever.

Whatever Point Break is trying to communicate is steadily ignored.

Tony clears out his throat to alert Bruce to his presence. Bruce turns, face green.

Not the Hulking-out green, although that sure as hell would be cool to see. No, this is just your regular, every day, _I’m going to be sick_ green.

“You okay?”

Bruce looks at him helplessly, then shakes his head.

Okay, so they’re doing this the nonverbal way then.

“Would you … I don’t know … mind telling me what’s the matter?” Yeah, Tony sucks at this whole empathy thing. That’s why he’s got Pepper and Happy and Rhodey. They’re all fluent in Tony-speak, and can understand what he’s trying to say better than Tony himself can.

Lord, he misses them.

Bruce manifests an unusual level of astuteness for someone who _isn’t_ Pepper, Happy or Rhodey when he doesn’t immediately pounce at Tony’s throat. In fact, he seems to understand that there was actual concern in there … Tony is not sure how to react.

The scientist opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. _Maybe_ he goes a shade greener. Tony frowns, taking a careful step forward.

Finally, Bruce seems to find his voice. “Systematic torture,” he chokes out.

There’s a moment of confusion, before Tony understands, and then his eyes go wide. He jerks his chin in Loki’s direction, curving a brow.

Bruce nods, looking, if possible, sicker.

“And that’s just what they found from a barest surface-level examination. All he’s let them. But … they’ve just scratched the surface.”

Well. Damn. Tony knows a thing or two about systematic torture.

He fights the flashes from Afghanistan that threaten to overwhelm it. It makes sense, really. He knows how hard it was to trust even his appointed-and-approved-by-Pepper personal med team after the Ten Rings.

Loki is stuck on a technically-enemy vessel, on a foreign planet, surrounded by foreign people, _aliens_ , who are probably more interested in cutting him open and studying him than doing the actual healing work.

“Is he fine?” Tony finds himself asking.

Bruce just shrugs. “He hasn’t said a thing. The doctors have eventually resorted to yes-no questions. Thor’s been preaching for the past twenty minutes, but I don’t think he’s understood a single word.”

Tony’s eyes flash to Loki’s empty gaze. “Yeah, me neither. What is he even talking about? Isn’t there a speaker somewhere inside? Can’t we listen in?”

Bruce smiles faintly. “No. For two reasons. One: it would be highly inappropriate to listen in on a private, if one-sided, conversation, and two: he’s speaking in the Asgardian language, so even if we did, we’d glean nothing.”

“You bastard,” Tony says, shaking his head. “You’ve already tried.”

Bruce gives him the most shit-eating grin he’s ever seen in his life. He can almost hear the words _who, me?_ spoken in his voice.

Tony just curves a brow.

Bruce doesn’t relent.

“I swear to Lord … you and Rogers both … you pretend to be such goody two-shoes, but in _reality_ …” He comes to regret the words instantly when Bruce’s face falls.

And now he’s in trouble, because _Tony Stark does not apologize._ He has no regrets, he is always perfectly in control, he never says anything he doesn’t mean.

And just because he has adamantly decided that Doctor Bruce Banner is a perfect human being doesn’t mean that Bruce necessarily agrees.

He opens his mouth to say _something_ , even if he does not necessarily know _what_ , when Bruce cuts him off with a small, sad smile. Tony, frankly, would’ve preferred to be struck.

“It’s fine,” Bruce assures him.

 _No, it sure as hell is not_ , Tony wants to say.

But he doesn’t. Out of cowardice, maybe? Because, yes, of course, he can battle aliens and terrorists, but he doesn’t have the guts to properly apologize to someone who has the potential to become a true friend.

Lord, he needs a drink. Or several. Or a barrel.

He wonders if their new Asgardian friends could help with that. Space Vikings means space booze, right? Actually, _mead_ , drank out of ornately carved animal horns in massive golden halls, while freshly killed boars roast over open fires.

Yeah, that sounds nice. He can definitely imagine Thor doing so, if not his baby brother. Said baby brother would probably sip wine out of a golden goblet and snort at the sight of the uncultured swines feasting.

Well … he doesn’t look like that’s one of his priorities right now.

“Tony …” He hears Bruce’s uncertain voice, and has to blink himself back into reality. Dissociating. How lovely.

“I’m fine,” he says, and winces at how false it sounds. Then, to cover up for that, “I’m going to talk to him.”

“What?”

“Our buddy Lokes. We still have several hours until we can reach New York, right?”

“Right.”

“Well,” he flashes Bruce one of his finest showman grins, “I’m not planning on spending that staring at nothing.”

When Bruce still looks unconvinced, Tony furrows his brow incredulously. “Come on. We have a chance to talk to actual _aliens_. Are you’re telling me you’re missing up on _that_?”

“Tony, he’s not talking,” Bruce says patiently. “And besides, don’t you think it’s a little insensitive to interrogate him on his planet’s inner workings when he all but bled out an hour ago?”

Tony rolls his eyes. “It’s for science!”

Bruce gives him a flat look, and Tony relents. “Fine. We’ll ask Thor.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little insensitive to interrogate him on his planet’s inner workings when his younger brother all but bled out an hour ago?”

Tony makes a face. “You’re a cruel, cruel man.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever been called that before,” Bruce replies easily. “Uncontrolled, wild, monstrous beast, yes. But not cruel.”

Tony winces, but nothing in Bruce’s bearing or countenance suggests hurt. If nothing, he seems morbidly amused by the whole thing. Ah. So Tony has a master of dry humour on his hands, then.

“Come on,” he drawls, fully aware he’s beginning to sound like a five year-old. “It’ll be fun.”

Bruce sighs, and Tony knows the battle is won. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Tony flashes him a smile. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

He makes for the heavy door next to the one-way mirror, and has the wisdom to announce his presence by knocking before he swings it open.

“Hello, Reindeer Games!” he says in a melodious voice. “Feeling better, are we?”

Loki’s hollow face turns to him, and Tony is suddenly startled by how _small_ he looks without his customary thirty pounds of leather and metal. He hasn’t even considered that his armour might serve some purpose other than the usual protection. Looking at Loki now, though, it becomes painfully obvious.

The vambraces, the wide shoulder pads, the stiff front … they all make sense now. All part of the act, to appear bigger, stronger, indestructible.

He doesn’t answer Tony’s inquiry, but then again, his appearance speaks volumes where words cannot.

He licks his lips once, before speaking in a hoarse, gravelly voice, a far cry from the cultured eloquence he’d displayed just an hour ago. “Agent Barton? And the others …?”

Tony shrugs. “They’re fine, last I heard of them. The head blow thing worked, though, so I imagine they’re all nursing headaches.”

Loki’s shoulders slump visibly in relief, and Tony is startled by the openness of his countenance as he whispers a quiet thanks. A few seconds’ worth of consideration has him realize that just existing must he exhausting enough in his state. Keeping on a mask must the last of his concerns now.

He hazards a quick glance in Thor’s direction. Point Break looks somewhat disgruntled, but other than that, fine.

“We’ll be in New York in a couple of hours,” he finds himself saying. “Anything new you want to fill us in on?”

Loki seems to consider. “Should you fail to prevent the portal’s being opened ...” _Lord_ , Tony doesn’t even want to consider that, “the Chitauri are a hive-mind species.” He looks up, green eyes so very tired. “If you manage to somehow destroy the mothership in the Sanctuary, they will all fall.”

“The Sanctuary?” Bruce questions quietly.

Loki nods. “The place the Chitauri will be arriving from. You ought to be able to access it through the portal.”

Tony nods. “Okay, that’s useful. Anything else?”

A shake of his head. “Nothing I can think of.” He pauses. “I’m sorry.”

Lord, he looks so _young_. While Tony knows that Loki has over a thousand years on him, when he had first seen him in Germany, he had thought he could be anywhere between the ages of twenty and thirty. Now, though, without all the grandstanding and the air of superiority and the arrogance and the armour?

He looks like a _kid_.

A kid that’s been subjected to _systematic torture_. Lord.

“You should probably get some sleep,” he blurts out before he can stop himself. Loki’s head snaps up, dark brows furrowed in confusion.

“I beg your pardon?”

Gah, the quasi-British accent strikes again. He’d once read somewhere that _beg pardon_ is the British (or Space Viking, he supposes) equivalent of _what the fuck_ , and never has he felt it more intently than now.

But the kid ( _damn_ ) still looks like hell warmed over, so he forces himself to continue. “There’s still a couple of hours left. We may need you out there. You’re the only one Selvig will listen to.”

Even as he says it, Tony doubts a couple hours of sleep will suddenly yield a battle-ready God of Mischief. The Asgardians’ healing is quick, he’s been told, but it can’t be _that quick_.

Loki looks at him in confusion, and Tony is suddenly reminded of the way he had looked to all of them for help when the mind-controlled Barton had expressed concern over the comm, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with that.

He’s not sure how that makes him feel.

“It was just a suggestion,” he says. “A good one, even if I do say so myself.”

Loki’s confounded expression doesn’t waver, so Tony just offers him a brief smile before turning towards the exit door. There are several modifications he would like to add to his armour, and conveniently waste the four hours they have left.

He finds, to his surprise, that both Bruce and Thor have followed him out.

“Stark,” Thor thunders. “A word, if you please.”

Huh. Well, that’s not ominous at all.

“Should I …” Bruce says awkwardly, pointing at the door. Tony says _no_ , in the same breath as Thor says _aye._ Man, and Tony almost forgot these guys were technically Space Vikings.

“I’ll just …” Bruce fumbles awkwardly, “wait in the front?”

Thor remains impassive, while Tony nods. “Sure.”

The Crown Prince of Asgard waits until Bruce has well and truly gone before he begins. “My brother. He … spoke to you. How did you accomplish that?”

Tony’s brows shoot up. He glances quickly at the one-way mirror, and is pleased to see that Reindeer Games had taken his advice to heart, having curled up into a tight little ball on the examination table. The rise and fall of his bony shoulders is too fast and irregular for him to actually be asleep, but it’s a step in the right direction.

“I … erm, I asked a question?”

Thor still looks grim. “He has not spoken a single word to me despite my many attempts, and I am his bother.”

 _Did you speak to him or at him, though,_ Tony wants to say, but he has a feeling it wouldn’t go over well with Thor. “Well … I’m sure he’ll come around.”

Thor still looks unconvinced, so Tony sighs and buries his head in his palm. “Look, Point Break, sometimes it’s easier to talk to someone you don’t have history with. And I’m guessing the two of you have _a lot_ of history. A thousand years’ worth of it.”

Thor nods, seemingly placated.

“And besides,” Tony says, “it’s not like we had a heartfelt tear-jerking discussion. I just asked what we needed to know about the oncoming invasion.”

Thor’s shoulders slump. “I just … I wish he was more open with me. Sometimes—”

 _Oh no._ Tony _is not_ playing shrink for space royalty, no thank you.

“Bruce is waiting for me,” he blurts out. “I … gotta go, sorry.”

As fast as he can, he leaves the room and nearly rams into Bruce on his way out.

“What’d he want?” Bruce asks, totally unfazed by having a billionaire slam into him full-speed. Lord, he loves this man.

“Oh, you know, the usual. Whined about his baby brother talking to me but not him.”

Bruce screws up his face.

Tony smiles grimly. “Exactly. Now … I was going to take another look at my armour before we maybe-fight aliens. I know it’s technically not your area of expertise, but … want to help?”

Bruce’s answering grin is radiant.


	10. X - Cognitive Recalibration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint wakes up, conversations are HAD.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *drumroll*  
> 'Tis I, I've returned!
> 
> I had so much fun with this one, and while the mindset Clint is after he's freed from the mind control is hard to guess and show, I tried my best. 
> 
> xxx

**X**

**Cognitive Recalibration**

Clint’s head hurts.

It hurts not in a way it’s supposed to be, from what he can gather from the lump at the back of his head. _That_ should hurt, yes, but it shouldn’t be twisting his very world in a cacophony of red and blue.

Or maybe the red is just Natasha’s hair. He’s not sure. She is holding him tight, and Clint has no intention of letting her go.

He knows they exchanged … some words, before the blue and the red grew so strong and threatened to overwhelm him, but he’ll be damned if he remembers what.

In fact, nothing seems important right now, nothing save the warm scent of flowery perfume and gunpowder that is just so _Natasha_ , and the warmth of her arms circling him like a lifeline.

Clint leans further into her, and the whole world slowly fades into black.

* * *

The thing that first alerts him to the fact that he’s awakening is the return of pain, even if it’s not as bad as he remembers it being. The sharp, ever-present and all-consuming pain is now a dull ache, for which Clint is very grateful.

He cracks his eyes open slowly, expecting an onslaught of blinding light. It doesn’t come.

“You with us?” Natasha’s soft voice says somewhere to his right, and Clint twists to look at her.

Oh. Bad idea. The ache roars up and nearly draws him back under, but he manages to resist.

“Easy, easy,” Natasha purrs.

“Nat?”

“It’s me.”

“Lord …” Clint groans. “I … what happened?”

Yeah, there. That is the established routine between the two of them.

Natasha is silent, and Clint hazards a look in her direction.

She is dressed in her thin leather tactical suit, her Widow’s Bites freshly polished and gleaming on her wrists. Her hair is still chin-long and falls about her face in soft curls. So … too much time couldn’t have passed. Nat never liked keeping only one haircut for too long.

Her brow is ever so slightly creased. “What do you remember?”

“I …” _Nothing_ , Clint wants to say. “There was … blue.”

“Blue?”

He nods, and forces himself to dig inside his mind.

Before he can so much as whimper, the memories overtake him.

_Darkness. Soft blue glow of the Tesseract. The roaring of a portal opened. A dark, kneeling figure, holding a sceptre, uncoiling like a snake. Fury’s clear voice: Sir, please put down the spear._

_Gunfire. Battle. Slaughter._

_Muted blue eyes on a gaunt, sickly face, and you have heart._

_Blue._

_Blue._

_Blue._

_Loki._

“—int, breathe with me. You can do that, right? Just breathe with me.”

A gentle touch of Natasha’s gloved hands on his forearms, her calm, logical voice calling out.

“Breathe with me. Breathe.”

Breathe.

_Blue. Blue. Blue and control and pain that is not his._

_Blue._

Breathe. _Breathe_.

“That’s good, that’s good. Focus on my voice.”

Natasha’s voice ... her smooth, silently confident drawl, without a hint of its original Russian accent.

_Tired eyes and a cruel smirk and a smooth, velvety voice, you have heart, you have heart, you have heart—_

“Clint. Breathe with me. You’re safe. You’re with S.H.I.E.L.D.—with _me_.”

Breathe in. Out. In. Out.

Slowly, the world around him stars pouring back in, and he becomes acutely aware of how hard he is clutching at Natasha’s wrists, even if she doesn’t seem to mind. He recoils instantly.

Natasha smiles. “There you are.”

“Nat …” he breathes out. “Natasha …”

“You’re fine. You’re on-board a S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier, safe.”

“Oh, Lord, _Natasha_ …”

“Safe,” she repeats.

“Did I … did I hurt anyone?”

She frowns. “How much _do_ you remember? Recent events, I mean.”

Clint buries his face in his hands. “I … I’m not sure. It’s all hazy, and … there’s the blue glow.”

“The blue glow?”

“Yes …” he clenches his jaw. “Ever-present. All-seeing. It’s … it’s gone now. Other than that …”

 _A plan. A plan that relied on his mas—_ Loki’s _—capture, on his guile and cunning, to weed out the threat before it can even become one, to make sure the Avengers Initiative never becomes fruitful, to unleash the—_

“Hulk!” he bellows out of a sudden, and searches for Natasha who’s regarding him with a stony expression. “Nat … _Banner_. Is he—has he …”

“Bruce is safe,” she says. “And in no danger of Hulking out. I swear.”

“No, you don’t understand, Nat,” Clint pleads, because she _doesn’t_ , and that bastard was _in his head_ , and Clint of all people understands what he is capable of … “He’s a master manipulator, Nat, who’s been perfecting his craft for longer than all of us combined have been alive.”

“Loki is not a threat anymore,” she says with a steadying confidence that drives Clint _mad_ , because she doesn’t _understand_ —

“The last few hours,” she orders, and ordering is good, because it gives Clint something to latch onto. “All that you can remember. Go.”

“I … we were on our way to … to here. To rescue the Bo— _Loki._ ” Oh, fuck. Natasha, thankfully, doesn’t comment. “Then … I was … leaving the jet … and you were there … and now I’m here.”

She’s quiet for long enough for Clint to speak again. “Am I missing anything vital?”

 _Yes_ , Natasha’s expression seems to say. She is never as guarded with him as with others. He had always considered it a precious thing and a highest honour.

“Do you know … why you landed the jet with S.H.I.E.L.D.’s permission? Why you exited without any weapons?”

They … they did, didn’t they? Cling wracked his brain for an answer, ignoring the ever-increasing ache in his temples.

 _The plan has changed,_ and _you sound a bit ragged,_ and _I’m sorry._

“Natasha,” he groans. “What _happened_?!”

“There’s been a … development.” She shifts her weight uneasily in the chair, something she would never do with anyone other than him. “Do you … do you remember the colour of Loki’s eyes?”

Clint bristles at the sound of the name, a sharp retort forming on his tongue, when he registers the question. “Blue,” he answers dumbly. “Why?”

“Well,” Nat sighs, leaning back in her chair, “apparently not.”

“Nat …”

“It started in Germany. Stark and Rogers have nearly apprehended him—”

“That was a part of his plan,” Clint says quickly, but Natasha just shakes her head.

“Yes, I know. It didn’t last long.”

“Explain.”

“Another person from Asgard arrived. Queen Frigga. Loki’s _mother_.”

“… what the fuck?”

Natasha smiles. “That about sums it up. Anyway, Loki pretty much blew his ‘defeated’ cover when he pinned Stark to the ground in an effort to train his guns off his mum.”

“What the _fuck?!_ ”

“Yep …” Nat sighs. “Eventually, his big brother also tagged along for the ride.”

“… Thor?”

“Yes.” She furrows her brow, swiping a red curl away from her face. “How did you …”

“I was in New Mexico, remember?” Clint says, shaking his head. “Quite a guy. Not as scrawny as his baby brother.”

Natasha makes a face. “You have no idea. Anyway, after a few conversations with her son and a quick examination of his sceptre, the queen came to the conclusion that he was mind-controlled all along.”

“I … wait, _what_.”

Natasha’s face body language tells him that there’s far, far more, but she’s also right in assuming he wouldn’t be able to hear much of it. Not in this state.

“The queen freed him from it,” Natasha continues. “I lent him my communicator, and he called you off. Apparently, he’s green-eyed.” She grins. “So his clothes match his eyes … damned fashionista.” He knows what she’s doing, speaking of it all in such cheerful, irreverent manner. It’s annoying.

It doesn’t mean he’s not appreciating it.

And Clint … Lord only knows what Clint is supposed to feel with this new information.

“At least the bastard’s head must hurt as bad as mine,” he says, smiling even when he’s really not feeling like it.

Natasha snorts. “Actually, you got lucky. There was blood. A lot of blood.”

Clint feels his brows curve. “You can’t just say something like that and then leave it hanging, Nat.”

She shrugs. “His bosses realized what was happening before the queen could get them out of his head. They decided to do something about it.” From the slight tension in her shoulders, it’s a bit more than that, but Clint doesn’t press.

 _I’m sorry_.

Spoken in a gravelly, agonized voice.

 _I’m sorry_.

“Where is he now?”

Natasha frowns. “Somewhere in the medical. I made sure it’s far away from us. Why?”

“I need to see him,” Clint says, and swings his legs over the bed.

“Clint,” she calls, clutching his wrist, “wait. You’ve got to rest, you’ve got to—”

“Nat … please.” He looks up at her, the concern she’d show to no-one else evident on her face. “I have to.”

She sees something in his face. She must. He doesn’t knows what it is, but her expression smooths over. “All right. _If_ I can come with you.”

Clint grins as she releases his wrist. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Natasha helps him up. The head blow is still making him dizzy, but he finds, unsurprisingly, that he finds the haziness endlessly preferable to that unbearable blue glow.

Holy fuck … he is feeling too much and nothing at all, and most of it is centred on the one person he is going to visit. Has insisted upon, in fact, despite Nat’s protests.

Is he supposed to hate him? Pity him? Be angry, be forgiving, be … anything at all.

But he’s feeling _empty_. Completely indifferent.

Maybe that will change once he faces Loki. Hopefully. Even burning hatred or frigid rage would be better than … than this _nothing_.

Natasha is tugging him along, and he’s far too lost in his own thoughts to try and memorize the way they had taken there. It’s okay, though. He’s got Nat.

He doesn’t even realize something has changed until he almost slams into Natasha. It takes more than that to knock _her_ off her feet of course, and the way she lifts her brow is almost comical.

He doesn’t feel like laughing, though.

He realizes why they’ve stopped then. There are two men in front of them, one with wild, artistically ruffled hair and a ridiculous goatee, the other unassuming, dressed in a purple shirt, and wearing glasses.

The first, he would have recognized in his sleep. The second, he never would have known if he weren’t a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. But he does know them. Tony Stark and Bruce Banner.

“Hey Miss Rushman!” Stark greets with an obnoxious whine. Natasha doesn’t seem to mind, a small smile pulling at her lips. She had told him the entire story behind the _Natalie Rushman_ nickname. She still remembers how he’d laughed.

Tony Stark, he decides, has the unique ability to be obnoxiously endearing, no matter how opposite the two traits are supposed to be.

“Natasha,” Dr Banner greets, more subdued. Not that it’s hard to come off as more subdued than _Tony Stark_ anyway. “I’m assuming you’re Agent Barton?”

It takes Clint too long to figure out he’s being addressed, and when he does, all he can manage is a jerky nod.

_Brilliant work, Barton, a master assassin and spy at work._

“Where are you headed?” Stark asks, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

Nat rolls her eyes. “To visit our alien friends.”

Hah. Friends.

Stark’s face twists. “Man, I just somehow convinced Lokes to get some rest. Don’t ruin that, would you?”

Clint feels his lips peeling away from his teeth, and he’s snarling before he even registers what he’s doing. “The hell I won’t!” he growls.

To his surprise, it’s Dr Banner who intercedes. “Guys—please.” His lips are tight. “There’s no need for this.” He turns to Clint then, dark eyes glassy. He is looking a bit ill. “Agent Barton …”

“ _What_?” Clint growls.

“I understand you’re angry …” Dr Banner says, “but don’t take it out on Loki— _too much_. He’s in a bad shape.”

Clint snorts. “You think I care?”

“Well, no,” Stark allows. “But still. The kid—” three heads snap to him in unison, and Stark winces. “Look, my point is, he’s lost a lot of blood and seems to be in some sort of shock. And …” he looks Clint in the eye, “what he did to you was shitty, but he didn’t do any of it willingly.”

“How would you know that?” Clint challenges.

“We do,” Dr Banner says, quiet.

“Explain,” Natasha says, narrowing her eyes, having apparently caught something Clint hasn’t.

Dr Banner hesitates, and Stark scoffs. “Lord, just say it. The docs found evidence of torture.”

Natasha’s brows shoot up. “Oh.”

Clint doesn’t say anything, too absorbed in a memory.

_Blue._

_Well then, the velvety voice says, the slightest twang of strain to it._

_A gunshot. Fury falls._

_His ma—_ he _goes, and they all follow before the whole thing collapses. The case is in one of the agents’ safe hands._

He _stumbles, and for a moment the pain that is not his flashes in his mind._

 _But_ he _is up, and they’re off._

_The echo of the pain that is not his burns in his mind._

Lord.

Why, oh why can’t this just be simple?

“Let’s go, Nat,” he says, before he can lose his nerve. There’s no way in hell he will hide from _Loki_.

“See you around, Natshlie!” Stark throws over his shoulder.

“How can you stand that man?” Clint huffs, smiling.

Natasha shrugs. “He didn’t mean anything bad. His people skills are abysmal, though.”

Clint says nothing, and lets her drag him to a bolted door that leads into a darkened chamber with a one-way glass.

He feels his brow crease up at the sight, and all he can say is a soft, “Oh.”

He’s not sure why the sight of Loki asleep, curled up on his side on an examination table, a blanket thrown haphazardly over him, and Thor looming above like a particularly grumpy guard dog strikes him so hard.

Actually …

Blue flashes in his vision again, and he finds himself muttering, “How the hell?”

Natasha makes an inquisitive noise, turning to him with a curved brow and her arms crossed over her chest.

“How did Stark get him to sleep? I thought the only way to get him to rest wait until he collapses from exhaustion …” he trails off there, knowing, even if his memories are still blurry, that what he said is the truth.

Immediately, he feels revolted. Did he really … _care_? Oh Lord, oh Lord, oh Lord …

“Clint!” Nat’s voice sounds, and anchors him to the present.

“Nat … I … I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head resolutely. “There’s nothing to be sorry about and you know that.” She pauses. “We don’t have to do this.”

“ _I_ do,” Clint says. “And if you try to dissuade me one more time, I’ll punch your teeth in.”

Nat chuckles. “As if you ever could.”

“Fair enough.” He waits for a moment, takes a few deep breaths and steels himself. “Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Until next week, my lovelies!


	11. XI - The Hawk and the Serpent

**XI**

**The Hawk and the Serpent**

Clint barges into the hospital room like a man on a mission, and he should know exactly what it feels like, since he has been on many a successful mission before.

He tries to project an air of fearlessness, but he knows Natasha isn’t fooled. She knows him too well, and he her, for something like that.

Loki jerks when he hears the reverberating sound of the door opening, and Clint is oddly glad they won’t have to wake him manually. Something about shaking a semi-evil alien into reality is just _far too_ weird, even for him, who has, as one of the finest operatives S.H.I.E.L.D. has, seen his fair share of weird. Including Loki’s huge electrical brother screaming at the skies when he doesn’t succeed in lifting a hammer from the ground. So, yeah. Weird.

Loki rears his head up, thin beige blanket falling from his too-thin shoulders and pooling in his lap. Clint can pinpoint the exact moment he realizes who it is that has arrived. His eyes grow comically wide, and he somehow becomes even paler. Clint didn’t think that was even possible.

He doesn’t say anything.

Neither does Clint.

Talk about awkward moments.

Neither Natasha nor Thor are breathing.

He wonders if the staring competition will last until they reach New York. That would be stupid. Clint grits his teeth together and speaks.

“You look like shit.”

Loki blinks. “That … that is an interesting observation, Agent Barton.”

“It’s true, though,” Clint counters, crossing his arms over his chest.

Loki grimaces. “I concede the argument.”

“Don’t get me wrong—you looked like shit when you first came through the portal, and managed to clean up somewhat in the meanwhile. But now? Now you’re back to square one.” Clint is speaking in a casual, flippant tone, but out of the corner of his eye, he can see Natasha, tense and ready to pounce at Loki’s throat. From the looks of it, it wouldn’t even be hard to snap his neck.

“I …” Loki’s brow furrows up in confusion. “I do not know of that expression.”

Barton rolls his eyes. “Of course you don’t. But when you use words like _prodigious_ and _bacchanalian_ in a casual conversation, that’s fine, eh?”

Loki looks more confused than ever. “I … apologize?”

 _I’m sorry, the velvety voice says, except it’s not velvet anymore. It’s hoarse and throaty, as though_ he _has been screaming. The thought fills him with dread._

_I’m sorry._

_Blue._

_I’m sorry._

_Blue._

_Blue._

He turns to Natasha and Thor. “Why don’t you two leave us?”

Natasha’s face is dispassionate, only the slightest tension around her lips betraying her unease. Other than Clint, there are very few people in the world who would ever be capable of detecting it. She nods her acquiescence. Thor, on the other hand, seems ready to argue, uncrossing his beefy arms and narrowing his eyes.

“Please,” Clint adds pointedly, cocking his head.

Thor turns to his little brother and says something in a language Clint doesn’t understand. If he had to guess … probably something along the lines of _is it okay if I leave you alone with the big scary spy?_

Well. Considering their speech pattern in English, it’s probably more of a something along the lines of _art thou in accord_ … something. It’s been a while since he’s read any Shakespeare.

Loki, Clint notes, doesn’t seem to be okay with any of them, _Thor included,_ being here, so he doesn’t protest much.

Hm. Right. New Mexico and the giant metal contraption that looked like it’d just stepped out of one of Stark’s labs was his fault, right? The bastard.

But still. _Torture_. Lord, why can’t this just be simple?

Clint sits awkwardly at the edge of the examination table, as there are no chairs anywhere around. Seriously, why aren’t there any chairs? S.H.I.E.L.D. isn’t exactly strapped for cash or anything.

“So …” he begins. He can practically feel Loki tensing. Good. “So, you have a language on Asgard, then? Besides English?”

“I beg your pardon?”

 _Heh. Caught you off-guard there, did I, bastard?_ It gives him a strange sort of twisted pleasure.

“Languages. You know, the things you _speak_? Because that sure as hell wasn’t English, and I’d be willing to wager it’s not from Earth, either. I know about these things. I’m somewhat of a spy, you know.”

“I’m aware,” he says quietly.

“Yeah,” Clint snorts. “You would. Since you’ve been in my head, you sick bastard.”

Silence.

“What,” Clint challenges, “you have nothing to say for yourself?”

“No,” Loki says, closing his eyes briefly, “I do not.”

_I’m sorry._

They lapse into a silence.

_I’m sorry._

“Did you mean it?” Clint says out of a sudden, breaking the quiet. His fingers are curling and uncurling rapidly. He hates it.

“Mean what?” Loki says dully, eyes fixed on the opposite wall like it holds all the secret of the universe. They are tired, and very, very green.

“I don’t remember much from the past few days,” Clint says. “Flashes. It’s getting clearer, yes. But I do distinctly remember you apologizing. From what they’ve told me, you were already free at that point. Did you mean it?”

Loki lets out a hoarse, broken chuckle. “Would it make any difference if I did?”

“It might.”

“Then … yes, Agent Barton, I meant it.” He shuts those green— _green_ —eyes, shoulders slumping. Pallid lips curl into a bitter smile. “Still. It changes nothing.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“How could it?”

Clint squints. “Do you _want_ my forgiveness? Because you’re sure as hell not acting like it.”

Another humourless grin. “I hardly think it matters what I want.”

“True,” Clint concedes. “But I’m still curious.”

Slowly, Loki turns to face Clint, as though the very movement is causing him pain. “It is not a matter of _want_ , Agent Barton.” He clenches his jaw. “I remember my … captors.” A chill goes down Clint’s spine, one that has nothing to do with cold. _The pain that is not his_. “I know what they did to me … most of it, at least. I hope.” He lets out a breath.

“Your point?” Clint says. He means for it to come out dryly, but he doesn’t think he has succeeded.

Loki waits a fraction too long before answering. “Should I have the … misfortune to meet them again, I am certain I would not take their desires into account when deciding upon my conduct.”

“Fair enough,” Clint admits. “But here’s the thing, _Lokes_. I’ve got to work with you, so we can get this entire mess behind us once and for all. And to do that, I have to know where we stand.”

He laughs, an ugly, dark sound that doesn’t sound like him _at all_. “Half of my brain wants to put a bullet between your eyes. Not that that worked, before, for the others. An arrow, maybe. You know, a bit of a personal touch. Another half insists we’re birds of a feather in this. And I don’t know; maybe we are. But that’s the thing. _I don’t know_.

“It’d be so easy to hate you, and so easy to pity you. I can’t do either. Every time I remember you killing my co-workers, you _in my head_ , a little voice whispers, _it wasn’t his choice_. But also, whenever I try to look at you that way, the voice turns angry and all I can see is the blue.”

He stops. “Do you see the blue?”

Loki’s eyes— _green, so green—_ widen. He nods, pale throat bobbing.

Clint laughs. “It’s so easy for you. Whoever did this to you … you can hate them, fear them … whatever. But I … I can’t do either.”

“I am sorry,” comes the gravelly voice, and Clint _hates_ the lurch of concern in his gut. Hates how _fucking_ familiar it is.

Hates that he can’t hate him.

“Just …” Clint exhales in exasperation. “Tell me! Tell me what to do! Because I can’t decide.”

Loki stays silent, and Clint clenches his fists at his sides to prevent himself from throwing something at him. Not that there’s much here to throw.

“Tell me,” he hisses.

“Better to be hated than pitied,” Loki intones dully, fingers twisting together in his lap. He refuses to meet Clint’s eye.

“That’s pride talking.”

He shrugs. “One of the few things I have left. If it’s all the same to you, Agent Barton, I would prefer it immensely if I did not have to part with that as well.”

“So … you want me to hate you?” Clint asks, voice dripping with disbelief.

Loki chuckles humourlessly. “If pity is the only other option …”

“It’s not.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No!” He frowns. “Forgiveness and pity aren’t the same thing. You can have one without the other.”

Loki’s lip curls. “A remarkably naïve standpoint.”

“What? Can’t expect anything else from pitiful, short-lived mortals,” Clint sneers.

“I said no such thing.”

“But you were thinking about it.”

Furious green eyes snap to him. “Do not put words into my mouth, Agent Barton.”

Clint grins. “Finally, a reaction. I applaud you.” He shakes his head. “I’m a spy and an assassin. I’ve seen enough of this world to know that … that nothing can be changed when everyone’s convinced it’s impossible. So maybe most people think that forgiveness and pity and mutually exclusive, but I don’t. And if I were to go with the flow on this one—”

“ _Go with the flow_.” Loki snorts. “You Midgardians have the most interesting turns of phrase.”

“ _Do not_ change the subject,” Clint warns. “My point is, I don’t care if everyone thinks it’s impossible. I’m not backing down. And … I _can’t_ pity you. If I pitied you, then I would have to pity myself as well, and I just can’t … I can’t live like that.”

“So what would you have me do?”

“The fuck if I know.”

“Enlightening.”

Clint feels the corners of his mouth curve upwards. “Pretentious alien arsehole.”

“Witless mortal fool,” Loki counters without skipping a beat. The insult sounds far too refined in his posh quasi-British accent.

Clint chuckles. “Here I am, trading insults with an alien.”

“Trust me,” Loki says, “there are worse ways of passing time.”

“So … what now?” Clint asks, directing his gaze to the same wall Loki has stubbornly been staring at for the duration of the conversation. Okay, yeah, it’s definitely better than actually staring at Loki. Why didn’t he do it before?

“I wish I knew.”

“I mean … there’s still an alien invasion to stop.”

“Norns-willing, we shan’t have to stop it. Only prevent the portal from being opened.”

“See?” Clint huffs out a breath. “That’s what I’m talking about— _Norns-willing._ _Shan’t_.” He shakes his head. “Who speaks like that?”

“Well, evidently, I,” Loki says, smiling faintly. “And you ought not invoke the Norns’ wrath by speaking of them in such terms.”

Clint snorts. “Spoilt prince.”

“Uncultured peasant.” He’s actually smiling now, an expression that startles Clint. It makes him seem younger, somehow.

“I’ll tell your mum you made fun of me,” he threatens.

“I’ll tell Agent Romanoff.”

“Touché.”

They lapse into silence again, though not nearly as uncomfortable as the former ones, when Clint’s phone buzzes. He frowns, but swipes his finger across the cracked screen to answer.

“Nat?”

_“Clint. Good, you’re there.”_

“Obviously.”

_“Any luck with Loki?”_

He smiles faintly. “A bit. What do you need me for?”

_“Fury’s calling in a conference. He said, and I quote: ‘Tell Barton to drag himself and Loki’s scrawny arse here.”_

Clint’s brows shoot up. “An interesting choice of words.”

_“Indeed. Anyway, conference room #5, fifteen minutes.”_

“We’ll be there,” He promises. “Bye.”

There’s a soft beep of the call ending. Clint stuffs the phone in his back pocket and turns to Loki.

“Okay, get up. We’re going.”

Loki blinks. “Going _where_ exactly?”

“Duty calls. Well,” he says, grimacing. “It’s technically Fury who is calling, but really, same difference.”

“I see.”

He rises from the table on shaky legs. A flinch of pain and a grimace later, a flash of golden-green light envelopes him, and he’s back to the Loki Clint knows, in his elaborate armour, raven hair drawn back into the famed spikes.

Clint feels a flash of white-hot rage at the sight before his better sense prevails, and he forces his lips into a grin. “So, the evil Christmas tree look is back, then?”

Loki pauses. “Christmas?” He frowns. “A form of Yuletide, yes?”

Clint shrugs. “Sort of.”

“And … do I want to know what does my ‘look’ have to do with it?”

He thinks of the long and drawn-out explanation the tradition of tree-decorating would entail. Of the bright shine in Lila and Cooper’s eyes whenever he is able to spend the Christmas with them on the farm, Laura’s adoring look. “No,” he says, before his throat clogs with the force of memories. They _have_ to succeed here. _They have to_. If they don’t …

He doesn’t want to consider it.

If Loki notices his absent-mindedness, he is gracious enough to stay silent, and Clint is so pitifully, pathetically _grateful_.

“Let’s just go,” he says. Silently, Loki obeys.


	12. XII - Plans and Tribulations

**XII**

**Plans and Tribulations**

Frigga waits anxiously, seated at the conference table. Thor is seated at her left, all but vibrating. Agent Romanoff is conversing silently and gravely with Director Fury, both their faces unreadable. Stark and Dr Banner speak much more animatedly, though from the chunks of their conversation that Frigga has heard, it’s nothing of any importance to her. Just some adjustments Stark is making to his robotic suit of armour. There’s two other agents present, an inconspicuous-looking man who Thor had introduced to her as _‘the Son of Coul’_ , to which the Midgardian had smiled faintly and said, _‘Phil Coulson’_ , and a steely-eyed woman who’d called herself Maria Hill.

The tension on the room is palatable, focused mostly on the two empty seats, one to Frigga’s right and one to Agent Romanoff’s left.

As discreetly as she can, Frigga wraps her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Her shawl, marred with her child’s dried and crusted blood, much like the rest of her person.

She will rip Thanos apart limb by limb until he pleads for mercy, and then she will laugh, and grant none.

Loki had pleaded too, in that cell.

Norns only know what the monster had done to him in the Void. Had he screamed for her? For Thor?

And they didn’t come.

Limb. By. Limb.

Stark had shared what Loki had told him about the Chitauri and their planet of origin.

 _The Sanctuary_.

Hah! The irony doesn’t escape her.

She will bring that place down as well, unleash the might of Asgard’s armies upon it, unleash the Bifröst itself. 

The automatic doors slide open, and the man she’d only glimpsed on the deck of the Helicarrier strides in, Loki following closely by.

His eyes— _green, green, emerald green_ —search the room and settle on her. She gives him a slight smile, though she knows the turmoil she is feeling is apparent to all.

So be it.

He makes his way to her, face expressionless. His walk is stiff, and when he reaches the chair, he all but collapses into it.

_Oh, little one._

Agent Barton settles into his seat next to Agent Romanoff. Silence falls.

Fury rises to his feet and surveys the room. A king over his land. Frigga would have been angry, perhaps, at the comparison, but Loki, _her sweet Loki,_ is _right here_. She hardly cares for grand gestures and social statuses now.

“We will be arriving to New York City in less than three hours,” Fury begins. His eye fixes on Loki, who returns the stare with cold resoluteness. “You told us some things. From what we gathered, Dr Selvig, one of your thralls, is to open the portal around that time, at the top of Stark Tower.” A nod in Stark’s direction. “Why Stark Tower?”

“It’s an energy source,” Loki says, and Frigga’s heart weeps when she hears him. The hoarse tone is not entirely gone, but it’s _better_. “The portal needs a constant stream of energy to function.”

Fury nods. “Well then. I’m assuming Selvig will have some protection.”

“Fifteen hired thugs, I believe. Mercenaries. Not under the control of the sceptre.”

 _Control of the sceptre_. Not _my_ control.

Frigga’s heart breaks all over again.

“They are well trained,” Loki continues, oblivious to her agony, “but from what Agent Barton has … told me … of you all, I do not believe you should have too much trouble dispatching them. The problem arises if they realize I have betrayed them. I suspect they have no desire to be arrested by S.H.I.E.L.D., so they might turn violent.”

It’s Agent Romanoff who speaks next, brows drawn together, leather-clad arms crossed over her torso. “Why would you put guards you _know_ we can easily beat?”

Unless one knew Loki for all of his one thousand and forty-seven years, one would never be able to recognize the uneasiness in his posture, or the way he squirms away from Agent Romanoff’s piercing gaze.

“I fought my captors, Agent Romanoff,” he says, voice eerily impassive. “I could not outright sabotage everything … but I did what I could.”

 _Oh, little one_.

Frigga has to restrain herself from leaping out of her chair and smothering her son in an embrace.

The silence that falls over the room is different than before, and every gaze is fixed on Loki, whose shoulders tense almost imperceptibly. For all that he craves affection and attention, in the end, he is most comfortable working in the shadows.

Surprising pretty much everyone, it is Dr Banner who speaks next. “Thank you.”

Loki’s head snaps to him, brow furrowed.

“For … well, for sabotaging your own conquest,” Dr Banner clarifies, uncomfortable beneath the intent gazes of everyone in the room.

“You’re welcome,” Loki says, ever polite, though there’s still a trace of confusion in his voice.

The other mortals echo Banner’s sentiment, and even Loki’s composure is tested. He looks at Frigga a bit helplessly, and she smiles.

That seems to placate him.

Fury speaks then, once again drawing the room’s attention to himself. “Anything else?”

A shake of his head.

“Good,” Fury says, nodding. “Now, Dr Selvig is not to be harmed. He is one of the leading scientists in his field, and a remarkable asset to S.H.I.E.L.D. and the World Security Council.”

Next to Frigga, Thor shifts in his seat. “An asset? Is that what value this Realm puts on Selvig?” He shakes his head. “Erik mustn’t be harmed because he is a good friend and an honourable man, not for being an _asset._ ”

“Your input is appreciated,” Fury says dryly. Thor bristles, but doesn’t react further, a testament to how far he has come in the past year. She cannot deny her pride.

Out of a corner of her eye, she sees a twinge of surprise flash across Loki’s face before he schools his features into careful indifference again, and turns to Fury.

“I can do it,” he says, drawing everyone’s eyes once again. His own eyes are fixed on Fury, burning with emerald flame. “I can easily gain access and order the mercenaries to stay their hand and Dr Selvig to shut the portal down before you can arrive and free him from the sceptre’s control.”

“ _We_?” Stark says. “Why can’t you just slap him across the face?”

Captain Rogers, Agent Coulson, Dr Banner and Agent Romanoff all give him an identical look that appears to scream, _Really?_

“What?” Stark says, smiling. “Am I the only one who thinks it’s kind of funny that hitting someone hard on the head can free them from mind control?”

Next to her, Loki stiffens, paling. Agent Barton has a similar reaction, except his face takes on an unflattering shade of green. Frigga wants to march across the room and slap some sense into Stark, but Dr Banner beats her to it.

“Tony,” he says, for a moment shedding his mellow mask and showing the true steel beneath, “perhaps if you just shut up now?”

Stark huffs a breath. “Yeah, probably.”

“To answer your question, Mr Stark,” Loki says, picking at his palm, “I am … uncertain of the limitations of your kind. I should prefer it if one of your own freed Dr Selvig.”

Stark narrows his eyes, “You’re being nice.”

The corner of Loki’s lips curls upwards. “Am I to take offense to that?”

The Midgardian shrugs. “I mean … you seem a lot nicer when you’re not monologuing about how we’re ants to be crushed beneath your boots. _Freedom is life’s great lie,_ and all that.”

Loki’s jaw tenses minutely, a gesture Frigga is certain no-one but her could ever notice. She frowns, and searches her memory.

The words _do_ feel familiar. Eerily so.

_Smile, for even in death, you have become Children of Thanos._

_You may think this is suffering. No. It is salvation._

_Freedom is life’s great lie._

Oh, Norns. She feels sick.

“I did always have a penchant for drama,” her brilliant boy says, even as the realization makes her blood thrum with the promise of vengeance.

Frigga has never considered herself a particularly bloodthirsty person. That was her husband’s domain—try as he might to conceal it, to play the part of a benevolent ruler, Odin thrives in war and bloodlust, the crack of his enemies’ skulls beneath his feet, the rush of victory and celebratory feasts.

Thor’s rage of battle is a different thing entirely. Her eldest craves the thrill of a good fight, a challenge for his skills as a warrior, but he is never intentionally cruel, nor does he enjoy others’ suffering.

And Loki … Loki’s passions and desires are always tightly locked behind a dispassionate mask. He can be ruthless in a way Thor never could be, but he rarely demonstrates it. Where his father and brother chase glory on a battlefield, with a battle cry on their lips, swinging spears and hammers in their hands, Loki unleashes his strengths, the razor-sharp wit, piercing intelligence, vicious cunning and cold calculation, in the arena of his own choice—the political one.

But Frigga … there is a shadow in her, a beast. She has always known it was there. It slumbers, mostly, only rearing its ugly head up when someone of _hers_ is threatened. The results are never pretty.

Thanos … oh, Thanos has no idea what he has awakened.

They have forgotten, she thinks. The Nine Realms have forgotten who she is and what she is capable of. They have forgotten the might of Asgard that stands behind her. But Thanos … Thanos dared to touch its prince.

And he will soon learn of its queen’s wrath.

“I’m not so sure about this,” Agent Coulson interrupts, breaking Frigga out of her ruminations. “Are we sure we trust him?” The Agent’s dark eyes turn to Loki. “No offence or anything, I’m sure you understand.”

Loki smiles, and Frigga has a sense of foreboding. She _knows_ that smile. She has seen it many times before, in the golden halls of Gladsheim. What normally follows is the absolute _evisceration_ of the one it is directed to.

“None taken, Agent Coulson,” he says, perfectly civil. “Though I confess I believed you’d be more open to the idea. After all … S.H.I.E.L.D. did employ the services of arrested HYDRA scientists after your World War Two, yes?”

Frigga frowns. _HYDRA_ … she has heard of that word before.

Her suspicion is confirmed when Captain Rogers snaps his head to Fury, eyes blazing with righteous rage. “I’m sorry?”

“Of course …” Stark says, lips cutting a grim line across his face. “Don’t look so surprised, Cap. We saw it, didn’t we?”

There is a spark in Dr Banner’s eye as his lips form the words _Phase Two_ , and Frigga understands. “Phase Two,” he repeats, louder. “You didn’t only use HYDRA’s schematics, did you? You actually had their scientists build them for you.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. did what it had to do,” Agent Hill says cooly, “for the protection of this world. If the portal opens, trust me, you’ll be glad to have those weapons on your side when there are thousands of aliens to kill.”

“Will it be worth it, though?” Captain Rogers questions. “What’s the point of winning if we stoop to our enemies’ level?”

Well, Frigga has some objections to _that_ , but it’s not her place to say.

“Enough!” Loki says, surprising them all. “Perhaps you have forgotten, but we do have greater problems at hand.”

“We?” Dr Banner asks mildly.

“Yes, _we_.” Her son straightens in his seat, interlacing his too-thin fingers. “Squabbling like children over the past will change nothing. I won’t pretend to fully understand the history of your dealings with HYDRA. I fear my knowledge of the last century of Midgard’s history is spotty at best, but at this moment, it is irrelevant. We are nearing your city of New York, and we need a strategy.”

“Okay,” Stark says, leaning back. “Fair enough.”

Fury sends a glare his way. “You are not an authority here, you’re a consultant, Stark.”

“Well, yeah. But his minions are opening a portal on _my_ tower, so I think I do have some sort of authority here. Besides,” he adds with a wink in Loki’s direction, “I like him.”

Loki cocks his head, raising his brows. “I … thank you for your … ah, ringing endorsement, Mr Stark.”

“Back at you, Lokes.”

In spite of everything that is happening, Frigga smiles.

“So,” Agent Romanoff says. “If we send Loki in, he can be accompanied by Agent Barton, who would both be expected, _and_ can keep a close eye on him.”

Frigga thinks it’s rather optimistic of her if she believes Agent Barton could in any way hinder her son if he chose to betray them, but she doesn’t voice that opinion.

The agent in question nods. “Yeah, I can do that. Put on a pair of shades, and we’re in. We could probably get some more people in the same way.”

“I’d be more comfortable if an Asgardian went in,” Coulson says. “I saw the carnage you left behind you when you arrived.”

“Fair enough,” Loki concedes. He pointedly refuses catch either Frigga or Thor’s gazes.

“I will come,” Frigga announces.

Thor turns to her. “Mother, I really do not think that is a good idea.”

“Whyever not?” Frigga turns to him with a fond smile. “You’re forgetting, dearheart, that you and your father aren’t the only fighters in this family.”

“Still,” Thor rebels, “you are the Queen—”

“Mother should come,” Loki interrupts dully, stubbornly looking forward. “I know you do not trust me. But you aren’t exactly inconspicuous, not after the Hel you raised on Midgard the last time.”

Thor bristles. “And whose fault is that?”

Loki snaps his gaze to him, lips curled. “Why, your dear friends’, I would imagine. Your dear friends, who betrayed their _rightful king_ , and every oath they made as warriors and Asgardians, because they couldn’t bear to see me upon Hildskjálf, even as temporary as it was.”

Thor’s knuckles whiten on the handle of his hammer, and Frigga straightens, ready to interrupt, if need be. “You _usurped_ the throne.”

Loki’s eyes widen in rage. “Is that what you think? Or better said, don’t _think_ , for if you had stopped your berserker rampage for one moment in order to do so, you would have understood that with you exiled, and Fa— _Odin_ in Odinsleep, the line of succession _fell to me_.”

Thor opens his mouth to retort, when Frigga speaks, quiet, yet cutting. “Thor. He is right.”

Thor’s head snaps to her, a strand of golden hair falling before his eyes. “But Mother—”

“I had the Head of your father’s Council hand him the hilt of Gungnir myself.”

“I was the King,” Loki says quietly. “And your most cherished friends couldn’t wait a whole _day_ before betraying me. Betraying _Asgard_.”

“You encased Heimdall in ice!” Thor protests. “Mother, surely you can see—”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Loki cuts in, tone promising death, “but perhaps he has neglected to mention that he was about _to take my head off my shoulders._ ”

Thor falls silent. “I am sorry …” he tries, but Loki interrupts again.

“You are what? Sorry that your loyal shadow finally grew a backbone?”

“Loki …”

“Ah-ah. Do not.” Even as his face and tone are cold, those green eyes Frigga will never take for granted again are shimmering with unshed tears. “Just don’t.”

He turns to Fury and his men. “Well then? Do we have a plan?”

Reluctantly, Frigga unglues her gaze from her children. The rest are looking at them with strange expressions that she does her best to ignore.

Fury frowns, face unreadable. “We do.”

“Good,” Loki says. “Now, we just need to polish it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's one more for the Public Displays of Dysfunctionality count!!!


	13. XIII - Future Talks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaack!!!

**XIII**

**Future Talks**

The discussion of strategy goes on for a while. Frigga is surprised to learn that Stark has quite a cunning mind behind his irreverent façade. He pulls out the schematics of his Tower, talking, for once, with perfect sincerity.

Once the plans are set and Fury dismisses them all, it’s time to prepare.

Frigga swaps her blood-stained gown for a dark, armour-like outfit S.H.I.E.L.D. provides her with. It is strange, much different than the armour she is used to. It is useless against blades, and while she understands that the projectiles fired from their pistols are what the mortals are most wary of, she can’t help but feel unease.

She puts her hair into a simple braid that falls down one shoulder, and sticks the darkened glasses onto her eyes. The discussion of contact lenses came up at some point while they were strategizing, but they were dismissed as both too limiting and unnecessary.

She has some mortal weapons, too, but she is positive that, if it comes to a fight, she will use her own blades.

There is a knock on her door, and she opens it to reveal Loki, pale hands twisting together, eyes fixed on the ground.

“We need to talk,” he grounds out, and Frigga smiles. She knows what it must cost him to actually say that.

“I agree, little one.”

He nods, shoulders relaxing a fraction, looks up and—startles. His eyes roam up and down, taking in the mortal-provided clothes. A confused noise forms in the back of his throat.

Frigga chuckles. “It is good to learn I can still surprise you, even after a millennia.” She moves away from the door. “Come in. I doubt you wish this to become a public affair.”

“Yes,” he says carefully, entering. “We have had quite a few of those in these past few days, have we not?”

“Too many. What must the mortals think?”

“Nothing too complimentary, I imagine,” he says as he flops down on the faux-leather couch. For his benefit, Frigga ignores the way his posture relaxes when he is not forced to stand upright.

“Indeed. Now …” she lowers herself into the chair opposite of him. “I’ve a good idea of what you wanted to talk about, sweet one, but I should like to hear it from you.”

Loki nods, closing his eyes briefly. “I … we need to talk about what happens … after. After this.”

“Well, that depends. What do you want?”

“I …” He hunches forward, shoulders curving inwards. “I … Norns, I wish I knew.” Twin tears slip down his hollowed cheeks. It is a testament on how thin a string he is holding himself together with. There is no way in Hel he would ever allow himself such a show otherwise. Not even for her. “But I do not.”

Frigga leans forward and takes his hand into her own. His fingers were always slim and tapering, but now they are downright bony. It breaks her heart all over again.

“I …” he says, voice shaking. “I wish none of it had ever happened. I wish I’d never tampered with Thor’s coronation … whatever disaster he would have wrought upon Asgard, upon the Nine … it could not possibly have been worse than this. Then … we would never have gone unto Jötunheim … and I would never have learned—never have discovered—” His voice breaks, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Frigga whispers, and pulls him into an embrace.

Loki just lets out a manic, broken laugh. “A mere few years past, never thought I would agree that ignorance is bliss.”

“Do not say such things, dearheart,” Frigga whispers, running her fingers through his hair, still shaped into firm spikes. “Nothing has changed. You are still my son. You are still yourself.”

“Of course it has,” Loki says. “Everything. I … for so long I wanted to understand _why_ … why Odin always seemed to hate me so much. Why _everyone_ hated me so much … now I wish I had never learned. It was so much easier, thinking it was something I did, something I could _change_ , rather than something I _was._ Am.”

“No, dearest …” _no-one’s hated you_ , she wants to say. Except that’s not true, is it? And she has confessed to him that she knew and pretended she could will it away, in that cell.

She would not break the promise she made to him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers instead. “I am so, so sorry, darling. You … you deserved better. From all of us. We are your family, and we failed you.”

Another terrible, broken laugh. “Monsters do not have families.”

It feels like some great beast had torn her heart out of her chest, then made her watch as it devoured it. “That may be so,” she says, “but luckily, you are not one.”

“I am _Jötunn_ ,” he sobs. “A _Frost Giant_. And not even a good one, at that. At least Laufey seemed to think so.”

Her blood turns to ice in her veins.

“Laufey was a fool,” she says resolutely, “for not recognizing you for the treasure you are. But you’re mine. A child of my soul.”

“Thor—”

“Hush, now. I love Thor with all my heart, just as I do you. But from the moment Thor was born, he was Asgard’s child more than my own. Odin plucked him from my arms and presented him to the entire Realm as the Prince and the Heir. He was given over to tutors and courtiers, to be made into mirror reflection of Odin.

“And I knew it had to be so, for he was not only my son, but a Prince of the Realm. But that never meant my heart did not weep for him.

“And then Odin went to war, and he returned from Jötunheim with the greatest treasure of my life. My very own little prince, who may not be related to me by blood, but his soul sings to my own in a way Thor’s never did. Or maybe it was never given a chance to, I know not.

“But the day your father brought you to me was one of the happiest in my life.”

“Don’t,” Loki breathes. “Do not call him that—he is not. I cannot …” He bows his head, jaw clenched, hands fisted into tight balls. “He is not my father.”

“Am I not your mother, then?” she asks, dreading the answer.

“Gods, _don’t_ ,” he chokes out. “I beg of you, Amma, do not make me choose. I cannot … I cannot acknowledge him, nor can I relinquish you, please, _please_ do not make me.”

Oh. She closes her eyes, and lets twin, hot tears of her own trek their way down her cheeks. “I am sorry, little one … I … that was never my intent. You don’t have to choose … you are my son no matter what. And I know … I know Odin would agree. He lo—”

“No,” he hisses, sobs raking his slim body, “you always … always _defend_ him. Even when … even when you _know_ he is in the wrong.” He looks up, eyes wide and hopeless.

“He is my King,” Frigga says reluctantly. “It is not easy being married to your ruler, no easier than having him be your parent. I … I am the example to which all of Asgard is held. I _had_ to show the Realm that I had the utmost confidence—”

“But he was wrong!” Loki says despairingly. “He was wrong about so, so many things and none of us ever saw it…” His breathing is laboured, slim shoulders heaving. “Because we were never taught it was even possible. And it doomed us …”

“I know. I made mistakes—a lot of them.”

“Why?” he pleads, so, so young. “Why would you teach us he was infallible? He is not. So _why?_ ”

“I have no explanation,” Frigga admits bitterly. “And for that, I apologize. I thought it was for the best. I swear to you, dearheart, I never wanted anything but the best for my family.”

“I want …” he weeps, “I want to go _home._ But there is no home to go back to … not anymore. And … I cannot go back to what it was like before, I _cannot_. I know you want your family back but I cannot— _will not_. I will not have Odin as my father.”

She tightens her embrace. “It is all right, little one. It will all be all right. You do not have to. We’ll find a way. I give you my word.”

“What if there isn’t one?” he mutters, voice coated in despair.

“Then we will make one. We have always made quite a team, you and I. Together, we can do anything.” She presses a soft kiss to his hair.

“How? How can we repair a millennia of … everything?”

“ _Together._ We all … it will be a lot of work, but it will be worth it, whatever it takes will be worth it, to have you back with me. But … you will have to help me.” She shuts her eyes. “No more shutting the world out. Shutting me out. Please. I just got you back, and I cannot bear to lose you ever again. If you are hurt, _please,_ tell me. Like you did just now.”

Carefully, he nods. “Together.”

“Together,” she promises.

They stay like that until a disembodied voice announces that the Helicarrier has arrived as close to the city of New York as it dares. Loki extracts himself from Frigga’s embrace, and wipes furiously at his wet cheeks. Finally, giving up, he casts a quick illusion that wipes away his ashen complexion, the darkened circles beneath his eyes, the red from his sclera, and after a moment of consideration, turns the colour of his irises back to muted blue.

Huh. She would never have thought of that.

Still. “You might want to wait with the eye colour, sweetest. You don’t want to give Director Fury a heart attack, do you?”

He grins, boyish and mischievous. “Are you certain?”

Despite that, his eyes turn back to their natural emerald green instantly.

Frigga simply pulls the darkened glasses over her eyes, confident they will conceal both the not-bright-enough blue of her irises and the reddish hue the tears have left. Together, they make their way to the rendezvous point, her arm resting in his elbow. For a moment, Frigga can almost pretend that they are back home at Gladsheim, strolling through her gardens in the morning.

They will have that again. She will fight tooth and nail for it, she will paint the very fabric of reality scarlet with Thanos’s blood.

In the conference room, while strategizing, they had agreed that it would be for the best if they took the unmarked black flying contraption that Agent Barton and Loki’s other thralls arrived in, as that was Loki and Barton’s original plan.

Said contraption perches on the same spot it had landed several hours ago. Agent Barton is there, darkened glasses hiding his eyes, a bow in his hand, and a quiver strapped to his back. Romanoff, who she had heard several times be referred to as _‘the Black Widow’_ during the meeting is next to him, as well as Stark, once again wearing his robotic suit of armour, and Captain Rogers, his shield reflecting the sunlight.

Dr Banner is holding the golden sceptre that contains the Mind Stone, Director Fury and Thor looking behind his shoulders.

The tension is palatable, everyone’s eyes drawn to the gleaming blue gem. Such an inconspicuous thing, yet it holds one of the six most powerful relics in the universe.

Loki doesn’t even bother disguising his distaste at the sight of it.

“I would ask that you don’t all pounce at my throat at once, I assure you, this is quite intentional,” he says. A flash of green later, and his eyes are back to that horrible muted blue. “It is a mere precaution.”

Fury looks disgruntled. “You with us?”

Loki smiles. “I am merely a shapeshifter, Director Fury. I am very much _‘with you’_.”

“Now, dearest, do not mock the poor director,” Frigga says, even as her lips curl. “Are you all right?” she adds, seeing the way he eyes the sceptre.

“I shall be very glad to see this done,” he replies, and puts one bony hand on the sceptre’s handle. They all watch with breathless anticipation as Fury relinquishes the hold of it.

Loki closes his eyes briefly, the gem throwing blue light over his face, making him look even sicklier than he already is. “Such power,” he mutters, but there is no mistaking the disgust in his voice. He shakes his head. “Let us go. The sooner we start, the sooner this all is over.”

There’s a murmur of assent. Agent Barton takes his place in the cockpit, Stark, Agent Romanoff, Captain Rogers and the two of them strapping themselves in. Loki leaves the sceptre in one of the storage units, and no-one can blame him for not wanting to touch the thing.

Frigga doesn’t let go of his arm, offering as much comfort and anchor as she can, as Agent Barton rises the jet in the air, and then they are on their way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow ... they've managed to avoid a PUBLIC display of dysfunctionality ... I'm so proud of them.


	14. XIV - Stark Tower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ... I may or may not have missed posting the last week's chapter ... so here's two today to make up for it?

**XIV**

**Stark Tower**

He cannot take his eyes off the storage department. He can’t see even a whiff of the sceptre, not the slightest reflection of its blue glow.

It does not help. Not when he can feel its power so potently, his seidr dancing in a loop with the Infinity Stone’s essence, revolted and attracted in equal measures. Not when he still remembers the Stone’s sickly hooks his head so vividly, and the effort that went into breaking his will thoroughly enough for them to be latched there in the first place.

Mother’s persistent hand on his forearm is an anchor, one he desperately needs. He hates this so much, the waiting, the unyielding power of the Mind Stone pushing at his barriers, the loathsome uncertainty of both immediate and distant future.

There is nothing wrong with a bit of chaos, but Loki has always preferred it when he is the one holding the reins.

The jet is fast, but the ride still seems unbearably long. The Bifröst has spoiled him, he suspects.

Oh, Norns. If this goes well, he will see Asgard again, not as a prisoner, not as a captive. Perhaps not even as a prince.

He is not sure whether it would be better to reign in the blossoming hope in his chest in order to avoid it festering into disappointment, or to indulge it, ride on the ecstasy for a while longer.

Either way, it seems far too good not to sour eventually, somehow. Maybe Mother will decide she does not want him anymore, or Odin will have him locked up in spite of her promises. Maybe Thor will get angry over something stupid and smash his skull in with his ever-so-precious hammer.

That last one does not disturb him as much as it probably should. He is not sure how to feel about that.

The New York City appears within their sights, its glass-and-metal buildings rising to towering heights. He is … not sure about Midgardian architecture. It has its charms, yes, but he will always be partial to Asgard’s gleaming, gilded glory.

Stark draws their attention to his building with an overdramatized sigh. “Isn’t she a beauty?” he asks no-one in particular.

“No, not really,” Captain Rogers hums, a sketchbook and a stylus in his hands. He doesn’t even bother looking up.

“Shush,” Stark says. “You don’t get a vote. Anyone else? Lokes?”

Loki considers for a moment, before deciding, why the Hel not? His lips curve into a wolfish grin. “It would be more of a beauty without your name plastered on top of it.”

Stark scoffs. “I think it’s a part of her charm. And besides, I’m not taking interior design advice from someone who wears a horned helmet, _Reindeer Games_.”

“More imaginative of a moniker than any of Thor’s, I’ll grant you that, Mr Stark.”

“Gah. That sounds so weird. Just call me Tony,” Stark says, dragging one hand across his face. “And don’t diss my Tower. It’s amazing. It’s Pepper’s baby.”

Loki shakes his head. “I haven’t an inkling of what you just said. A pepper has … something to do with your tower?”

“Not _a_ pepper,” Stark— _Tony_ educates, all self-important. “The one and only, Miss Virginia ‘Pepper’ Potts.” A goofy, sappily lovesick smile spreads across his features.

“When’s the wedding?” Loki asks dryly.

“And are we all invited?” Agent Romanoff cuts in, grinning. Loki hadn’t thought she was listening.

“The wedding, eh?” Tony shrugs. “When I have the guts to give her the ring Happy’s been keeping safe for me since 2008.”

Loki blinks. “Wait, don’t tell me. Is _‘happy’_ also a name?”

“You guessed it, bro.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Romanoff says, holding up her arms. “2008? Really? That was four years ago.”

“Shush, Natashlie,” Tony says.

“Is that another one of your ever-so-clever nicknames? I must say it is hardly one of your best.”

“I’ll have you know they are _all_ very clever indeed. Right Capsicle?”

Captain Rogers rolls his eyes, smiling faintly.

“Oh, for a given measure of clever, certainly,” Mother says, surprising everyone.

“You too, Your Majesticfulness?” Tony rears back, a hand on his armoured chest, an expression of faux hurt contorting his features. “And here I thought we were buddies.”

“Perhaps one day, Lord Stark,” Mother says gracefully. “If you can keep up with me.”

“I’ll hold you to it,” Tony promises, winking.

“Careful, Lord Stark, or I shall think you intend to steal me away from my husband,” Mother says, curving a brow.

“Nah, I’m good,” Tony promises. “I’ve got Pepper.” And, the lovesick grin is back.

“We’re arriving in five minutes,” Agent Barton says from the cockpit. “Everyone ready?”

With continuing banter, Tony and, Captain Rogers and Agent Romanoff hide away, just in case. Loki doesn’t realize they have helped distract him from the sceptre’s rotten influence until he is holding the Norns-damned thing again.

The jet lands smoothly, and he exists, Mother walking at his right, Barton at his left.

When the first rays of Midgard’s single sun hit his face, he almost forgets about Thanos and the Other and the Chitauri and the S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers.

Oh, Norns. How long has it been? There was no sun in the Sanctuary, no way to determine the passage of days. On Midgard, he had arrived under the guise of night, and it was night in Stuttgart. The days, he spent burrowing with his underlings, or on-board the S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier.

Hel, it was night when he— _let go_.

The sun is like a blessing, like a kiss, a treasure he hasn’t even realized he was missing. The warmth is so, so sweet and addictive.

But then he sees three of the hired goons striding forward, armed to the teeth with their pitiful mortal weaponry.

The woman he recognizes as the leader—Beloša, he believes she is called. She is a mountain of a woman, both taller and wider than him. Barton found her rotting away in a prison in Southeast Europe, and staged a quick and frighteningly effective breakout.

“Hey, boss,” Beloša greets. “Barton. Who’s the new chick?”

Only a thousand years’ worth of honing his mask is enough to stop Loki from snapping her neck for that. “Someone you might wish to show proper respect to, or else I may just allow her to flay you alive,” he promises, unable to keep the edge out of his voice.

“Allow?” Mother asks, smiling faintly.

“Should you wish it,” he amends. His tone isn’t apologetic; it can’t be, but he knows she understands.

Beloša’s scar-flecked hands draw up. “Sorry, sorry.” She flashes Mother an ugly smile. “No hard feelings, eh?” Unlike other mercenaries here, money isn’t what is keeping Beloša tethered to him; it’s a sense of debt. He had, after all, commanded her be broken out of prison. Having grown up in Asgard, that particular sense of honour is something he understands, at least.

“We shall see,” Mother says, too-sweetly. He can almost feel her disappointed gaze. _Are criminals like these the type of people with you consort with these days?_ He feels like a boy again, caught in some mischief or another.

The other two mercenaries, both hardened assassins, though neither possesses nor Beloša’s strength nor her size, whisper among each other. He doesn’t pay much attention to their words.

“Dr Selvig?” he demands.

“Still obsessed with the glowing cube. I’ve got ten people guarding him.”

“And the remaining two?”

She hums. “Crass and Smith. Boss, this is _Tony Stark_ ’s penthouse. They are sniffing around.”

Oh, Tony will not like that.

Loki curves a brow. “I shall not have my employees act as common thieves. Call them back at once.”

“C’mon, Boss,” Beloša whines. “It’s Stark’s private place. Seeing it is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!”

Loki narrows his eyes. “I thought, Miss Beloša, that I had made myself clear.”

She huffs something that sounds distinctly as _killjoy_ , but does whip up her communicator. “Smith, Crass, drag your arses back here.”

There is a crackle of static, and then one of their voices, Loki cannot discern which one’s, says, _“But Beloša … there’s—”_

“I don’t give a fuck,” Beloša snaps. “The boss’s back, and he wants you here.”

“Inside,” Loki mouths.

“In the living room,” Beloša adds.

_“Fine, we’re coming.”_

“And you are to leave whatever you had stolen,” Loki says, loud enough for them to hear. “Or I shall have you flogged.” He adds just the right amount of irreverent cheer into the last sentence to send them scuttling faster.

The six that stands on the landing pad makes their way outside, a perfect cover for Agent Romanoff, Captain Rogers and Tony to sneak out of the jet clandestinely.

The inside of Tony’s tower is tastefully decorated, save for an abominable chandelier that looks as though some smith had welded together dozens of scavenged scraps in a fit of madness, then hung it on the ceiling.

Beloša strides over to the counter, and pours herself a drink out of a glass decanter, grimacing as the liquor burns her throat. “Stark has a shit taste in alcohol,” she announces to the room.

“Fascinating,” Loki huffs. “I’ll be sure to mention it to him when I defenestrate him.”

Beloša chuckles. “I take it your mission went well, Boss? Fury’s super-secret boy band won’t be any trouble?”

“Would I be here if it has not?” Loki says, curving a brow.

“I guess not,” she admits, pouring another shot and downing it in the same breath. “Oh, good, you two fuckers have arrived.”

Smith and Crass have emerged from the elevator door, and are crossing the living room without even attempting to look like they aren’t rushing. All the better, Loki supposes.

“Hey, Boss,” Crass, smaller of the two, says, eyes wide, and Loki notes, not for the first time, that their education on royal heraldry is sorely lacking.

“Agent Barton?” he says.

Barton, who’d been silent up until now, pulls out a tablet. “While escaping from the Helicarrier, we stumbled upon some intel. Fury’s planning an attack, but he’s underestimating us.” He pulls some graphs on the tablet’s screen. The five mercenaries all nod, pretending to go understand the nonsense that Barton has designed to, in his own words, _‘look cool’_. “He’s sending a few agents down through the garage level, believing we’d rely on SI security to protect us from external threats.”

Which they would have, as it would not have been a bad idea at all, since Tony diligently protects his workers and projects both from organizations like S.H.I.E.L.D. and corporate espionage. He has graciously agreed to subtract it for the time being. The mercenaries, however, have no need of that knowledge, nor do they require to be informed that Iron Man, Captain America and the Black Widow will be awaiting them in place of ordinary S.H.I.E.L.D. goons.

If it were up to Loki, he would have just killed them all on the spot, but Fury insisted upon capturing them alive.

“Okay,” Beloša says, frowning. “Smith and Crass can check it out.”

“There’ll be no _‘checking out’_ ,” Agent Barton snaps. “S.H.I.E.L.D. is still half an hour away, and there’s enough time to set up a defence. You’re _all_ going.”

Beloša frowns. “You sure about that, Boss? I’d feel better if I were here. Helps me keep an eye on things.”

“Your feelings are immaterial to me,” Loki says cooly. “Yours is only to obey.”

She shrugs. “As you wish. C’mon.” She snaps her fingers at the other four.

“See you soon,” Agent Barton says, smiling faintly.

The elevator door closes, and Loki allows a smirk to curve his lips. “That went well. How much time do we have?”

Agent Barton pulls out a watch. “Fifteen minutes. Why?”

“I should not like to overwhelm Tony, Captain Rogers, and Agent Romanoff.”

“Makes sense, though I don’t think it’d be an issue.” He eyes the crystal decanter. “D’you think Tony’s booze is really that bad?”

“I’m sure I couldn’t tell,” he replies. “I’ve had better things to do on Midgard than sample alcohol.”

“Good,” Mother says with a smile. “You’re too young to drink.”

“I’m not,” he says before he can even register what the Hel is happening.

Then, faster than Loki could follow, she steps forward and takes a sip. “A bit weak,” she decides. “But overall not that bad. Your mercenary has a horrid taste in liquor.”

Loki feels his jaw dropping. “Mother?” he squeals in a most undignified manner.

Mother chuckles. “Close your mouth, darling. Gaping does not suit you.”

Agent Barton is grinning, but Loki can only watch Mother, and the empty glass in her hand.

“Come now,” she says. “I think we’ve a certain Dr Selvig to pay our respects to.”

The crystal glass makes a _clink_ sound as it touches the marble counter.

“Dr Selvig … yes. Right,” he manages.

 _Norns. Pull yourself together_.


	15. XV - Portal Closed

**XV**

**Portal Closed**

The sceptre is heavy in his hand as they make their way to the highest point of the Stark Tower. The city of New York, with its metal and glass buildings, endless spires, tall constructions, and a great patch of green land spreads out beneath them in all directions. The mortals below go on about their daily work and lives as if nothing is wrong. As if the fate of their entire Realm is not to be decided right now, right here.

Ignorance is bliss, indeed.

The shining silver contraption that has been built to be capable of tearing open the fabric of reality itself and making a portal into Sanctuary draws Loki’s gaze immediately. The Tesseract shines blue amidst the gleaming metal parts, protected by a faintly buzzing force field.

His grip tightens on the sceptre to the point of pain.

But that is all right. Pain is an old friend. It can help him centre himself, and remind him what he stands to lose if he fails.

Isn’t that funny—the universe’s latest cosmic joke at his expense. Should he succeed, all that awaits is an uncertain future as Asgard’s fallen, monstrous prince, but at least there is no endless torment in sight. So far. Norns only know what recompense Odin will demand for having made such a fool of him, even if it was unintentional.

He wonders briefly what they think of all this on Asgard—he cannot see the All-Father willingly divulging the great secret of his heritage to the wider public, much less announce that he had raised a child so wicked and cowardly he had let himself fall into the Void Between Worlds rather than face the rejection and scorn that was always his lot in life.

And should he fail … this bit of pain might as well be a prelude for what is to come after, for Thanos, and the Other, and Maw and all his other children will make him regret ever being born. Not that he hasn’t already been regretting that for a while now.

_He will make you long for something as sweet as pain._

Despite having witnessed and felt first-hand how deep the Mad Titan’s twisted rot runs, the thought does not disturb him as it probably should. What must that mean for him, then, that he is so _eager_ to subject himself to further torment?

He wants to see Thanos dead, yet the thought of disappointing the Titan fills him with unbearable dread. Was he always this messed up?

Probably.

Always contrary, always _other._

But he cannot fail, because there is so much more at stake than his own pitiful existence. Mother is here, and mixed feelings on the matter or not, he will slit Thanos’s throat with his own fingernails before he lets that despicable thing anywhere near her. She was always too good for this entire thrice-damned universe anyway.

And … if he is pressed to admit, the sight of Thor in the Mad Titan’s clutches doesn’t fill him with elation either. Not that he _would_ ever admit it, of that he is certain.

And then it is too late, and the dam is broken. He imagines Tony Stark’s clever tongue ripped out with a pair of white-hot pincers, Clint Barton’s cooling corpse, arms spread out like a fallen hawk’s wings, Natasha Romanoff’s face twisted in pain, showered with blood of the same scarlet tint as her hair. He imagines Ebony Maw’s spears embedded in the Hulk’s green bulk, Steve Rogers’s head rolling away, severed with his own shield.

And the Children of Thanos cackling in the background, revelling in the pain they have caused.

_Norns, Norns, Norns._

Breathing becomes hard, the sight before him swimming … but then there’s the soft touch of Mother’s gloved hand on his shoulder.

“Breathe,” she whispers, too soft even for Agent Barton to hear, and he is himself again.

Just in time.

One of the mercenaries, a short, slim woman with honey-coloured skin and uptilted eyes inclines her head when she sees him.

“The doctor says the portal is almost ready, sir,” she says by way of greeting. Her voice is lilting and slightly accented.

“Good,” Loki says. “Leave us.”

The mercenary’s brow creases. “I’m sorry, sir?”

“Get to the lower levels,” he explains. “The garage. Fury’s S.H.I.E.L.D. is planning an attack, and I would have them thwarted. Beloša is down there already, she will explain the minute details. I have better uses of my time.”

_Like stopping this whole Norns-damned thing._

A slight twitch of her features is the mercenary’s only reaction to his, admittedly strange, order. “Okay, sure,” she says. “I’ll take four with me, and leave another five to protect the portal and the doc. Sounds good?”

Loki curls his lips, spreading his arms. He ignores the way his muscles scream at that. “Tell me, do you believe the three of us incapable of protecting them?”

He knows what she sees—Agent Barton, Hawkeye, one of the finest spies and assassins this Realm has to boast. Mother, slight and athletic, mortal weapons strapped to her person … far more dangerous than the mercenary can fathom.

And Loki, in his armour, the sceptre in his hand.

“So …” her throat bobs. “We’re all to go.”

“Correct. Now get to it.”

The coordination takes but a few moments, and soon the ten remaining mercenaries are all on their way down, where they will meet Captain America, the Black Widow and Iron Man’s special brand of hospitality. He sincerely wishes he could watch, but he still has a role to play here,

“Dude,” Agent Barton says, grinning. “That was awesome.”

“We are not done yet,” Mother says, voice tight. “Come now, dearest. Let us get to Dr Selvig.”

The man in question is dressed in a crumpled blue shirt and stained beige trousers, white hair in disarray, sharp stubble covering his cheeks. His eyes are wide and wild and so, so blue.

“Doctor,” Loki calls. With what appears to be great reluctance, Dr Selvig tears those eerie eyes away from the Tesseract, and smiles wildly.

It makes bile rise in Loki’s throat. “Stand back,” he orders.

Dr Selvig’s smile drops slowly, head cocking to one side. His eyes dart back to the Tesseract. “But the portal isn’t ready yet …” he mutters.

_Thank the Norns for small mercies._

“Dr Selvig,” he says, pouring as much authority in his voice as he can, emulating, loathe he is to do so, both Odin and Laufey. Many things can be said of his so-called _‘fathers’_ , but no-one can deny they are—or in Laufey’s case, _were_ —proud, powerful rulers. “Stand back from the Tesseract.”

The doctor does so, brow furrowed.

Loki swallows. “Stand still. Do not fight Agent Barton, no matter what. Am … am I understood?”

Selvig nods mutely, too-blue eyes confused.

“And Doctor Selvig …” the words taste like acid on his tongue, but he forces them out. “I am sorry.”

He turns, unable to bear the look that must be on Selvig’s face.

His palms are slick with sweat on the sun-warmed metal of the sceptre’s handle.

A step forward. Two, three, until he can both hear and feel the humming of the force field. A deep, heaving breath.

A soft, gentle touch on his forearm. He turns to see Mother’s warm, loving eyes.

“It’s all right, little one,” she mutters. “It will all be fine.”

He nods, having found his throat too pathetically clogged to form words. He grits his teeth together, and thrusts the Norns-damned spear into the glowing blue force field.

It hurts. It hurts so much.

The city disappears, the noises vanish. Mother and Dr Selvig and Agent Barton and the very ground beneath his feet all trickle away, leaving a void— _not the Void, never, never again, please—_ behind.

Only pain, pain, searing pain, tearing at the fraying defences of his mind, striking at his weakened body.

The two Infinity Stones battle for dominance in a lightshow of blue and yellow, yet neither can come out victorious, for they are of the same ilk. Mind and Space, Space and Mind, twisting, striking, countering and lashing out in some twisted sort of eldritch dance, thrumming with ancient, untameable power.

It’s agony and it’s ecstasy, and he wants to run and he wants to let it consume him, drag him under, until the Æsir and the Jötnar and fates and politics are all forgotten. Until there is only he, and the bliss of power. Or maybe the bliss of death. Either is good.

He closes his eyes, and lets the currents take him.

There is a noise in the background, away from the addictive thrum of the Infinity Stones.

A voice that calls his name like it’s a lifeline. He doesn’t want to leave. He wants to stay here, torn apart and stitched back all over again by the Stones in an endless, twisted loop.

But the voice … he knows that voice.

It means warmth, and it means comfort, and it means love.

It’s the featherlight kisses before bedtime, the triumph of a successfully mastered spell, the scent of freshly baked cinnamon biscuits prepared for the Yuletide feasts, the musty smell of old leather-bound tomes.

It’s home.

Somehow, the endless might of the two Stones doesn’t seem all that appealing anymore. Why … why should he stay? It … it hurts, the power flowing through his veins and tearing him apart.

Why not give himself over to the warmth of her embraces and the feel of home?

It nearly takes all of his strength, but he manages to open his eyes. He sees his hands, too-thin and pale, latching onto the golden sceptre, sees his leather-clad knees on the gravelly ground.

He hears his name, from very far away. His name, spoken in Mother’s voice.

The portal. S.H.I.E.L.D.. The Chitauri … _Thanos_ … and Mother.

Mother, who disobeyed Odin’s orders. To come—here. Come for him.

He unclenches his fingers from the sceptre and flings the entire thrice-damned thing away in disgust.

And Mother is there then, embracing him, her flowery perfume achingly familiar. He buries his face in her arms, and does not even care that he is sobbing, that he is shaking like a leaf.

“Amma …”

“Hush, dearest,” she whispers, tracing soothing circles on his back. “I have you. You did it. We won. All is well. All is well.”

And for the first time in two years, Loki lets himself truly believe all will indeed be well.

The world comes pouring in slowly, even though Loki would be content to leave it entirely and send the rest of his life wrapped in Mother’s arms. But after a fashion, his sobs calm, his shaking ceases. He can hear the distant sounds of traffic on the roads beneath them, and the hum of the Mind and Space’s power.

Though he’d much rather not, he untangles himself from Mother and wipes his face with the back of his hand. It comes off splattered with red.

Huh. When did that happened? After everything that took place on the Helicarrier, he really can’t afford to lose any more blood.

He half-registers that his illusions have peeled away, meaning he looks every bit as weak and emaciated as he feels, with nothing to hide the shadows beneath his eyes, the sharpness of his cheekbones, or, apparently, the red trickle of nosebleed.

Marvellous.

Agent Barton and Dr Selvig are standing to the side, giving him an illusion of privacy. Even better.

“The Tesseract,” he says, wincing at the hoarseness of his voice. “There is a container for it, is there not?”

Dr Selvig nods, now-naturally coloured eyes regarding him with wariness. Well, it’s not like he can blame the man.

Taking the hint, Agent Barton retrieves the small, inconspicuous silver case from among the mess of the science equipment needed to maintain and monitor the portal, and strides over to the portal. He frowns, the darkened glasses now resting among the locks of dark blond hair. “Dr Selvig? How do I take her out?”

In place of an answer, Dr Selvig casts another suspicious glare in Loki’s direction, and Loki _really_ doesn’t have the strength to do anything about it just now. Or maybe ever.

“C’mon, doc,” Agent Barton drawls. “I told you, he’s on our side now. He closed the damned portal, for fuck’s sake.”

“Could be a part of his plan,” Dr Selvig says, gaze still fixed on Loki.

 _What plan?_ Loki thinks hysterically, _I can barely keep conscious, what possible plan could I have concocted?!_

“I do not take kindly to such accusations on the behalf of my son,” Mother says, pouring every ounce of queenly authority she has into her voice. Suddenly, Loki is nearly overcome with the urge to confess to whatever mischievous scheme he has taken part in recently, no matter that there isn’t one.

Dr Selvig’s head snaps to Mother.

Loki tries to rise to his feet, but nausea rises in his stomach, dark spots appearing in his field of vision. _Perhaps not_.

“There is no _plan_ ,” he musters.

“Except getting you to the healers,” Mother says after a beat. “And a good night’s sleep.”

Loki wants to protest that he is not a child to be coddled, but words are just _so_ hard right now, and his tongue feels leaden, and frankly, sleep sounds _heavenly_.

So he just hums in agreement, too exhausted to speak.

Norns … when was the last time he’d _slept_ a full night’s sleep? Not in the weeks preceding Thor’s coronation, when stress and anxiety were eating him alive. _Surely not_ in the days after the banishment—even if he could have gotten himself to peel away from legislation and … other things, there is no way in Hel he would have been able to relax enough to lie down. With the Chitauri? The thought alone makes him choke on a bitter laugh.

Norns …

There’s some debate afterwards, but Loki can’t follow, all his attention focused on keeping himself awake, until even that trickles out, and darkness embraces him.


	16. XX - Aftermath

**XVI**

**Aftermath**

Steve’s elbow connects with a mercenary’s ribs and sends the woman toppling down. Without even looking, he catches the pair of cuffs Stark sends his way and binds her hands behind her back.

Looking around, he sees Romanoff bring down a mountain of a man with that thigh-chokehold move he sincerely wishes he never has to experience.

Once the last of the mercenaries are bound and in various states of unconsciousness (but all of them breathing), Steve allows himself to breathe as well. He is still a bit winded from the fight, but he attributes that to being out of practice rather than lack of physical strength.

A shudder goes through the building, causing all three of them (and several still-conscious mercenaries) to look up at the ceiling.

“You’re too late,” a woman with distinct Southern accent growls, grinning wildly. “He’s opened the portal.”

“J?” Stark asks, voice uncertain.

 _“There is no structural damage to the Tower, sir,”_ an elegant, British-accented voice says out of nowhere, and Steve looks around wildly.

“Relax, Cap,” Romanoff says, a faint smile playing about her lips, flush high on her cheeks.

“It’s just JARVIS,” Stark grins. “He’s an AI.”

Steve … really doesn’t know what an AI is, and at this point, he is both too tired and too afraid to ask.

Stark, noticing his predicament, and causing Steve to curse his inability to form a decent poker face, says, “Artificial Intelligence. I made him.”

Huh. They can do that now? It’s not a flying car, but …

“Erm … JARVIS?” he asks. “Can you tell us what’s going on up there?”

 _“The vibrations came from the roof of the Tower, Captain Rogers,”_ the disembodied voice says. For a moment, Steve wonders how the heck it could have known his name, and then he recalls what he is wearing. _“All my cameras there have been disabled.”_

“Shit,” Stark mutters.

“Language,” Steve mutters, mostly out of habit. Stark has the guts to grin at that.

“Boys,” Romanoff says, “shouldn’t we go check it out?”

Steve frowns. “Someone needs to stay behind and keep an eye on them.” He jerks his chin in the incapacitated mercenaries’ direction.

“Nah, we’re good.” Stark waves a careless hand. “J? You able to take care of this?”

_“Certainly, sir. Shall I inform Director Fury as well?”_

“Yeah, do that,” Stark replies, smiling. “Thanks, J, you’re the man.”

_“I most certainly am not, sir.”_

Is Steve imagining it, or did the AI just make a joke? Wow. Okay, he’s taking back what he said about flying cars. The future is amazing … and weird, and sometimes terrifying, and he is saying that as someone who fought a Nazi scientist with a red skull for a face back in the forties.

Even though it only seems like a few months ago for him.

“Okay,” he says. “Stark, you’re able to fly, right?”

“Sure thing, Capsicle,” Stark replies, eyeing the nearest exit. The Stark Tower garage is below ground, so there aren’t any windows to break.

Steve nods. “Go. The Widow and I will join you as soon as we’re able.”

_“Sir, Mr Hogan is on his way here, with the security guards.”_

“Awesome,” Stark says. “J, keep me posted.”

With that, the visor of his helmet comes down, and he rushes out, presumably to the roof.

Steve and Romanoff exchange one look before they both race to the elevators.

The ride up is … awkward, to say the least. Steve’s blood is boiling for a fight, adrenalin making his every sense alert and heightened. So soon after the action, standing still for a prolonged stretch of time seems impossible, even if Stark Tower elevators’ speed far outstrips anything they had in the forties, and probably most of the things they have in the 21st century, if he’s being honest. Stark is clever like that.

“What’s the matter, Captain?” Romanoff says, smirking. Her hair is in a bit of a disarray, but other than that, she doesn’t even seem winded. “Nervous?”

“I don’t like waiting,” Steve confesses.

Romanoff’s eyes light up, and her grin is too wide to be natural. “Impatience? Is America’s golden boy confessing to a _fault_?”

Steve smiles despite himself. “I’m still just human, ma’am.”

Her nose wrinkles. “Ugh. Don’t call me ma’am, it makes me feel old.”

“I used to feel old,” he says, smiling in earnest now. “Then aliens for whom a thousand years is nothing began dropping from the sky. They sort of … put things into perspective for me.”

Romanoff actually chuckles, a joyful, chiming sound he would not have expected from someone capable of things she has done. “Yes … I bet ninety doesn’t sound so old now, eh?”

“Ninety-one, actually,” Steve huffs. “And no.”

She turns and rakes her perceptive eyes over him. “You look good for ninety-one,” she says, full lips curving into a grin.

“So I’ve been told,” he replies. “But I don’t think it’s fair. I’ve had some help.”

“That new ice treatment?” she says, curving a brow, perfectly serious. “I’ve heard something about it, I think.”

Just as Steve rolls his eyes, the elevator makes a _ping_ sound, and the doors slide open to reveal a tastefully decorated living space, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the busy New York skyline.

Steve and Romanoff both rush out, and make their way to the roof.

“You’re late,” Stark comments, as he hovers above a futuristic-looking (even for 21st century) metal contraption. Barton and the man Steve recognises as Dr Erik Selvig are working on dissembling it.

Then, Dr Selvig reaches inside with what honestly looks to Steve like a pair of kitchen pincers, and extracts a glowing blue cube. The Tesseract.

And Steve is assaulted with a wave of memories—the blue glow of HYDRA’s weapons, Red Skull grinning like a maniac with the Cube in his hand, the _Valkyrie_ plunging down, the cold, the cold, the cold …

_No._

He grits his teeth together and _forces_ himself to go on. Falling apart can come later. They still have work to do.

The Tesseract disappears within a silvery case, and Steve can finally breathe.

The tension he didn’t even know was there vanishes, leaving his shoulders to slant and his head to droop.

He opens his bleary eyes, and stares at the sceptre, discarded on the ground beneath his feet. Even in the unforgiving sun, the gem glows with its eerie blue light, tarnished gold handle gleaming. Funny, he had never noticed the delicate engravings.

He stoops to pick it up, wincing when it nearly blinds him. He can feel it now—the Mind Stone’s power, lurking in the back of his head. It makes him sick.

He frowns. “Where’s Loki?”

“Reindeer Games?” Stark says. “Passed out from the force of his own extra-ness.”

“Or … y’know, closing the portal,” Barton says, rubbing his hands together. “We done here?”

“There are still fifteen mercenaries tied down in my garage,” Stark says, gently lowering himself to the ground. “But the good news is that my lovely Tower is pretty much intact.”

Steve rolls his eyes, even as his lips twitch. Stark has a … particular brand of humour that takes some getting used to, but in the end, it’s quite funny.

“Okay, let’s wrap this up,” he says. “Stark, your AI—JARVIS—contacted Fury, correct?”

Stark chuckles. “Sure. Someone just get the Sleeping Beauty on the line.”

“I am quite alright,” Steve hears a hoarse, British-accented voice, and looks to its source. Loki is sitting up, looking decidedly _not fine_ , his skin a sickly greyish tone, the shadows beneath his half-mast eyes more pronounced than ever, a trickle of blood smeared over the lower half of his face.

“No, you’re not,” Queen Frigga says dryly, with an air of someone who has had to deal with this for a long time. Longer, in fact, than all others here have been alive, _combined_. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’ve had worse,” Loki protests, though the fact that he looks like hell makes the whole thing comical.

“I’ve no doubt,” the queen replies. For a moment, Steve can see the anguish on her face before a cool mask slots into place. “But that does not mean I am letting you do something stupid.”

Loki’s eyes roll, but Steve can swear he can hear a note of genuine affection in his muttered, “As you wish, Mother.”

“Okay,” Stark interrupts. “The teary reunions are over. Now, who wants a drink?”

“The head of the mercenaries insulted your liquor, by the way,” Barton says, grinning, as he grabs the Tesseract’s case. “Said you had a shit taste.”

Stark looks appalled. “No!”

“Yup,” Barton continues musing, smile widening.

“Well, then,” Stark says, with the air of someone oh-so-offended, “the only way to settle this is for me to break out my best stuff. I mean … we kind of averted an apocalypse, right? I’d say that deserves a round of shots at least.”

“I’m with him,” Barton says, chuckling. “I could do with a drink. Or several. It’s been a weird couple of days. What do you say, Cap?”

“We … do have fifteen deadly mercenaries in the garage …” Steve says. “You remember that bit, right?”

“It’s fine,” Stark shrugs. “J and Happy are making sure they’re all nice and secure until Fury arrives and takes them off our hands. Now, about those drinks.”

“I don’t see why not,” Romanoff says, running a hand through her unruly red curls.

Barton snickers. “A bit of a warning, Stark—she can outdrink us all.”

Romanoff smirks. “You Americans can’t hold your liquor.”

“I can’t get drunk,” Steve volunteers. “Because of the serum. And I’m Captain _America_ , so …”

“I shall take it upon myself to acquire you some Asgardian liquor,” Queen Frigga’s voice sounds from behind him, and Steve turns to see both her and Loki standing, the latter looking like only spite and the force of will are keeping him upright. “I assure you, Captain, it is quite strong.”

“Hey, that’s not fair,” Stark complains. “Why does only he get alien booze? I want alien booze, too. Pretty please, Your Majesticfulness?”

The queen smiles. “I am not certain it would do well with your delicate mortal constitution, Lord Stark,” she says serenely.

Stark looks devastated, and as always with that man, Steve can’t be sure of it’s real or not. On one hand, being unable to drink untested extra-terrestrial substances that might kill him isn’t something Steve would think a person would be too upset about. On the other … Stark looks like someone kicked his puppy.

“I can never tell if you’re joking,” Barton says, voicing Steve’s thoughts. He hoists the Tesseract case up over his shoulder.

Romanoff chuckled. “I usually just go with _yes._ It saves the time. The same thing goes for when I have to wonder is he insane for whatever reason.”

“Not a bad strategy,” Stark allows. “But this time, I’m not. Get ready Cap, ‘cause you’re soon not going to be the only supersoldier running around.”

“Really, Tony,” Loki says, surprising everyone. “You would attempt to re-create a serum that has, when applied incorrectly, turned a man’s face into a _skull,_ because you want to drink alien liquor?”

“A _red_ skull,” Steve adds helpfully.

“Isn’t that like … because he was a bastard? Like the Excalibur of chemistry. If you’re bitch, you end up like Red Skull, but if you’re good, you end up like Capsicle over here. Do you really think so little of me, Reindeer Games?”

“Do you really desire to hear my answer to that inquiry?”

“Ow. I’m hurt, Lokes, I’m _hurt_ ,” Stark says. “You will never know what it’s like, with your fast Asgardian metabolism.” He snorts. “Privileged arsehole.”

A shadow passes Loki’s face, and disappears so quickly Steve is left wondering if it was ever there in the first place. His lips curve.

“Says the man who owns the Tower we stand upon.”

“Says a _prince_!”

“Fair enough.”

“Boys,” Romanoff interrupts. “About those drinks? Fury is coming in quarter of an hour, and then it’s tons of paperwork and reports for _all of us_.”

“You, perhaps, Agent Romanoff,” Loki says, smiling. “But we’ve no affiliation with S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Stark grimaces. “Actually, I’m a consultant. Though …” he looks thoughtful. “The last time he tried to push a report on me, I just wrote the phrase _‘I Iron-kicked their arses’_ five hundred times. For some reason, Fury wasn’t pleased.”

Loki clasps his hands at his stomach, curving a dark brow. “I was referring to myself and the Queen, but now I want to hear more about that.”

Stark looks like a little kid on Christmas morning. “See? See that, people? _Someone_ here appreciates the work I put in!”

“Oh, Norns,” the queen huffs, wisps of golden hair escaping her long plait that sways gently in the warm May breeze. “Now there’s two of them. I am uncertain if the Nine can withstand this.”

“I thank you, Mother,” Loki says, gaze intent, “for your vote of confidence.”

Romanoff crosses her arms over her chest. “Right … well, I’m still waiting for the promised drinks, Tony.”

“Anything for you, Natashlie, dear, anything for you,” Tony says. “Let’s get down.”

His shield in one hand, the sceptre in the other, Steve accompanies the most diverse group of people he had ever had the chance to work with to the lower lever, Stark’s penthouse. He hears Loki inquire after the background story of Romanoff’s Stark-name, prompting both Stark and Romanoff to tell a ridiculously far-fetched story that Steve somehow has no trouble believing, Barton and the queen discussing differences and similarities of Earth and Asgardian archery.

Steve just wonders when did his life become so convoluted.


	17. XVII - Victory Celebration

**XVII**

**Victory Celebration**

Anxiety was, up until recently, a word nigh unknown to Thor. Oh, he is no stranger to nervousness, but before today, the nerves were never something he couldn’t soothe either by putting on a brave face and plunging into whatever kept him on his toes, or simply smashing it with his hammer.

Other than that, never before was anyone other than Mother and Loki able to pick up on it. And both of them are in the centre of these events that cause the unpleasant, churning sensation in his gut. After Director Fury, Dr Banner and the Son of Coul have all attempted to calm him down, Thor was forced to admit defeat.

He now sits in a chair on the conference table at the Helicarrier’s bridge, absently tracing the engravings on Mjölnir’s surface, waiting for the news that never seems to come.

He _understands_ , he really does, that this is a stealth mission, and a millennia of experience has taught him he is not built for that sort of thing. Sneaking around, thinking up strategies and defeating an enemy before a battle could even start—those are Loki’s strengths, not his. It’s Loki’s mind that is constantly running, appraising, thinking. Thor used to mock it all, calling his skills deception and his way of battle cowardice. Nothing a true, courageous warrior would ever engage in.

Yet Midgardians, this brilliant, ingenious race—they made an art of it. And none of their warriors seemed to mind Loki’s underhanded tactics, none of them interrupted with scorn and mockery.

If he didn’t know better, Thor would have thought Loki was just as surprised by it as he was. But he cannot claim to anything about his little brother anymore.

So he sits, and he waits, a myriad of scenarios spinning in his brain.

His new friends, lying dead, slaughtered like beasts. Loki, betraying them, siding with the Mad Titan and his army. Mother, captive, because never, no matter how far gone he may be, could Thor imagine Loki hurting her.

Or perhaps all of them gone, Thanos’s portal tearing the skies open, swarms of Chitauri pillaging and plundering and killing, with no-one to defend the helpless mortals.

Or his friends, his mother and brother, victorious, only to face Father’s wrath. It was technically treason, what Mother did, even if it all does work out for the best in the end.

Thor sighs audibly.

Norns, he needs to punch something.

Then, out of a sudden, some mortal device at the centre of the table rings, and Fury scrambles for it.

Thor and the others perk up, staring at the elegant metal contraption.

“Romanoff,” Fury says, “status?”

 _“Success, sir,”_ comes the voice of the Lady Natasha.

“Any casualties?”

 _“None—”_ Thor breathes out a sigh of relief. They are alive. Loki and Mother are _alive_. _“We’ve got a dozen and a half prisoners in the Stark Tower garage we’d like to get rid of, though.”_

“Prisoners,” the Son of Coul says, typing furiously into his phone, “all of them?”

_“Yep. Stark’s security team is looking after them. Bring a medic as well. I don’t think there are any injuries worse than a few broken bones, but you can never be too sure.”_

“Noted,” Fury says dryly. “And why is Stark’s security looking after the prisoners, and not you?”

_“Well … Stark did promise us drinks.”_

“Of course he did,” Maria Hill mutters, smiling fondly. “I can send a team that’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

 _“Sounds good,”_ the Lady Natasha says, and then the connection is cut off.

“I wish to be on this team,” Thor declares.

Fury’s remaining eye regards him with an intensity that reminds Thor uneasily of Odin. “All right,” he says finally. “Coulson? Rogers will be there.”

“Of course, sir,” the Son of Coul says quickly, cheeks darkening for just a moment.

The Lady Hill nods. “Good. Then we’re set.”

A mere few moments later has Thor in yet another flying contraption, this one equipped with holding cells for his brother’s hired hands. The Son of Coul is strapped into a seat next to him, still entranced with his phone. Dr Banner is seated across from him, immersed in his own, somewhat larger device.

He recognizes some of the other people here as the members of the armed escort Loki had received when he was first brought to the Helicarrier.

It isn’t much of a conversation starter, really. _Hey, remember when you held my little brother at gunpoint? Good times._

He fiddles with Mjölnir’s leather strap, waiting as patiently as he can. It does not yield much success. He can almost hear Loki’s playful snort in his head— _you wouldn’t know patience even if it hit you in that overlarge pumpkin you call head with your own hammer, you bumbling oaf_.

Fair enough, he thinks, fair enough.

The fifteen mercenaries his brother has amassed are all bound, sitting on the floor among Stark’s sleek cars, all in various stages of beat up, from bruises and swollen eyes, all to a man whose arm is bent at an unnatural angle.

There isn’t much for either Thor or Banner to do, except be gawked at. He is uncertain if the prisoners are staring at him so intently because they recognize him as Loki’s brother, or merely because his armour makes it clear they are of the same world.

Even so, the Son of Coul seems to require no help with coordination, and yes, soon enough the mercenaries are all secured within the flying contraption’s cells.

“Well, then,” the Son of Coul says, his formal Midgardian attire still as crisp and immaculate as ever. “Who wants to join the others for a drink up in the penthouse?”

To Thor’s surprise, Banner grins. Strange. He had pinned the man as remarkably tame, not one to indulge in anything ostentatious. From what he understands of the doctor’s particular … _condition_ , he has a very good reason for it. “Tony did promise me an invitation to the Tower.”

Thor remains quiet. The Lady Natasha has assured them that all is well, yet he cannot— _will not_ —believe it until he sees his family for himself, and until then, he cannot make himself care about much more.

“It’s settled, then,” says the Son of Coul, slipping his phone into his pocket. It is a strangely final gesture, like he is finally leaving his work with S.H.I.E.L.D. behind in order to relax.

The Son of Coul must have been in Stark’s Tower before, for he can find the elevators with the precision of someone knowing their way well. Once inside, he presses the highest of buttons, and the elevator ride commences.

It is awkward in a way Thor has never known something to be awkward before. On Asgard, he was always the loudest, most boisterous presence, drawing any room’s undivided attention to him instantly.

And he had loved it, revelled in it.

But now, in this cramped little moving metal container, he wishes he could be smaller, vanish into shadows, unnoticed, as Loki is prone to do.

It is a new experience, to be sure. Thor does not recall the last time he _didn’t_ want the full focus of someone’s attention on him, the time when his towering figure was a source of anxiety rather than pride.

The end of the elevator ride cannot possibly come too soon, and once the metal doors slide open, Thor all but stumbles out, feeling his anxieties release their hold on him, even if it is just for a fraction.

And then he takes in the room.

There is the Lady Natasha and Captain Rogers and Stark. His heart soars when he sees Erik, ruffled, but seemingly unharmed. And there is Mother, and Loki.

The sight of his little brother nearly makes the air in Thor’s lungs _whoosh_ away. Loki is sprawled casually in one of Stark’s plush chairs, ankle crossed over a knee, chin resting on one hand while the other holds a half-full glass of crimson wine. A soft, yet genuine smile plays about his thin lips. He is looking more relaxed than Thor has seen him in _centuries_. Gone is the air of reserved haughtiness, or that venomous, mocking superiority he had come to associate with his little brother in these past few days. He looks … happy.

And then Loki’s green eyes dart to Thor, and he watches as one by one, the walls snap up. His posture grows rigid, sweet smile turning sharp, eyes glimmering with cool calculation. It’s like a magical transformation, from his little brother to the snarling, bitter thing from the Helicarrier.

_Why, Brother, why?_

He averts his eyes, unable to look. There is … a lot that will have to be addressed, one day.

“Oh, good, you’re here,” he hears Stark’s cheery voice. “Brucie-bear, Point Break, Agent. Brilliant. We’re all in one place now.” He frowns thoughtfully. “Well, unless you want to include Hill and Fury, but I think they’re a tad busy right now. J, bring out more glasses, will you?”

Thor frowns. He hasn’t seen any servants around. He jumps when a disembodied voice says, _“Certainly, sir.”_

“It’s an AI,” Captain Rogers says, with the enigmatic smile of a man enjoying a private joke. “Tony’s built him.”

Thor can do nothing but smile and nod, praying fruitlessly that his confusion won’t show … too much.

“Have a seat, guys,” Stark says, clearly enjoying his role of a host. He is still wearing his robotic armour, sans the helmet, a delicate glass cup with some pale green liquid balancing between two metal-clad fingers.

“Thor, dearest,” Mother calls, a sun-bright smile illuminating her face, and Thor feels as though some heavy burden is lifted from his weary shoulders. He smiles despite his dark mood, and goes to sit next to her, allowing Stark to pour him a drink.

He realizes for the first time in a year, how much he has missed Midgard. The past few days were hardy conductive to introspection, and he had scarcely found a few moments’ time to eat and sleep, much less dawdle on his feelings.

But now that he’s here, the force of his nostalgia hits him in full power. The air of Midgard isn’t as sweet or aromatised as that of Asgard, the sounds of the car traffic are hardly a song compared to the clashes of steel and the laughter of children, the Earth’s single sun blazes with an intensity that never seems _just right_ , and yet …

He loves his home, he truly does, but right now, it feels as though he has left his heart here, with the short-lived, brilliant mortals. One mortal, in particular, to whom he has promised he would return.

“Erik,” he says out of a sudden, because Erik is a _friend_ , and Thor has been neglecting him in favour of brooding. “How good it is to see you.”

Erik looks … older. His hair is unkempt, eyes bloodshot, clothes wrinkled. “No offence,” he says, “but I really wish it were under better circumstances.” His eyes dart to where Thor knows Loki is sitting rigidly, probably trying his best to disappear, melt in with the leather of the couch. His little brother has always been good at that. Going unnoticed.

Perhaps if he wasn’t … they wouldn’t be here today. Perhaps the bright, mischievous boy Thor remembers from their childhood would be by his side now.

“True, true,” he accepts, refusing to turn and glare at Loki. “But I am glad to see you nonetheless. How has life been treating you?”

Erik raises a brow, and Thor bites his tongue. This— _this_ is why he needs Loki. His friend, thankfully, understands what he meant. “Aside from the obvious? Not that bad actually. The employment with S.H.I.E.L.D. isn’t as awful as you would have expected of a soulless corporate. The pay’s fine, and hell, studying the Tesseract was fascinating, even if it did result in some … unforeseen … events.”

Thor wants to laugh away the bitterness. Unforeseen, what a way to put it!

“I am glad,” he says. “What of Jane, and the Lady Darcy?”

Erik shrugs. “Last I spoke with them, they both seemed fine. Jane continued working of constructing an Einstein-Rosen Bridge …” He frowns. “Last I heard, she believed the interference was on _your_ part, not ours? Is that true?”

 _Ah._ He can almost _hear_ Loki stiffening behind him.

“Well … yes. The Bifröst was destroyed. But the particulars are not something to be discussed at a victory celebration. Hopefully, with the help of the Tesseract, we will be able to repair it,” he deflects.

From the way Erik’s eyes dart to his little brother again, he is fairly certain the attempt was not entirely successful.

“Well, Jane, at least, is having some ideas. I imagine S.H.I.E.L.D. did something to protect her when he arrived.” Erik shrugs and takes another sip of his beer.

“Yes, the Son of Coul mentioned something,” Thor says, eager to move on from the difficult topics. Ha. As if anything can even remotely be classified as _not_ difficult, with his brother nursing his wine two seats down. “She was removed to a safer location, along with Darcy, I believe.”

“Correct,” the Son of Coul says. “An observatory in Tromsø. We could, maybe, organize for a transport here, before you and your family leave?”

For some reason, Thor’s throat feels suddenly clogged. “I … I would appreciate that very much. Thank you.”

The man frowns. “As a matter of fact … I don’t recall anyone informing Dr Foster of your arrival here … now that the danger’s over, I think it is my duty to tell her.” He grins. “Would you like to join me?”


	18. XVIII - Third-wheeling Like A Boss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, one would think that now when there's school, I'd be better at keeping track of weekdays ... so here I am, again, a day late, with a healthy dose of Darcy Lewis.

**XVIII**

**Third-wheeling Like a Boss**

It’s the scream that awakes her.

Not the _help-I-am-being-murdered_ type of scream, or even _Darcy-look-at-this-nonsensical-mathematical-formula_ scream, so Darcy has no problem ignoring it, and rolling over in the bed, hoping to continue her nap, and hopefully, the dream she’d been having. She can’t remember the particulars, not really, but she’s fairly certain it involved amazingly hot elves and some bats. Or something like that. Jeez, her subconsciousness is weird.

No such luck. She falls into that weird stage between dreams and reality, only to be awoken by someone shaking her like it’s the end of the world.

Darcy replies with a very eloquent “Whaaa …?”

She blinks a few times to clear her vision, and finds Jane’s overly excited face leaning over her.

She blinks again, and realizes Jane had been talking this whole time. “—et ready, pack your stuff, we mustn’t be late—”

“Okay!” Darcy says “Stop.”

Jane, to her eternal bafflement, obeys.

“What time is it?”

Jane glances to her wristwatch. “Nine PM.”

Darcy groans. “I’ve been napping for two and a half hours? I thought you said you’d wake me at eight thirty!”

Jane smiles sheepishly. “I was … distracted.”

“Distracted _how_?”

And Darcy listens with fascination as Jane relates what she had been told.

“So, to sum it all up,” Darcy says, dragging herself out of bed. “The alien who tried to kill us all last year came to America, proclaiming his intent to rule over us all measly mortals. And S.H.I.E.L.D. chased us off here because they thought we were in danger. But then the crazy alien’s mum and big brother—our good buddy Thor—also came, and figured out he was being mind-controlled this whole time, because apparently, mind control is a thing, and not at all that disturbing. And now that all dangers is passed, Thor wants to see us.” She shrugs. “Sure. Sounds like a normal Thursday for us.”

She yawns. “Pass me my suitcase, will you?”

Jane grins, after some rummaging, extracts a bright pink case from the mess, and helps Darcy throw her clothes and possessions in.

“So … the scream that woke me,” Darcy says, squinting. “I’m guessing that was you? I don’t wanna think a neighbour was being brutally murdered and I ignored it.”

The blush that spreads all over Jane’s face is answer enough, but she nods nonetheless.

“I figured,” Darcy says, and makes her way to the bathroom. “So, how exactly are we supposed to get to New York?” The tube of toothpaste she uses is very nearly empty, but she manages to scrounge up enough for a wash.

“We’re in a S.H.I.E.L.D. base, are we not?” Jane says, appearing in the doorway and proceeding to swipe all of Darcy’s shampoos and other bathroom shit into a bag. “We’re taking a Quinjet in three hours’ time.”

Darcy spits out the foam, and rinses her toothbrush in the sink before dropping it into the bag Jane is holding. “Cool. I’ve always wanted to fly in one of those. And, we get to see Thor and Erik again.”

Jane makes a face. “ _And_ two other members of his family. One of whom is the Queen of Asgard, the other the prince. And he also kinda sorta tried to kill us last year.”

“ _Chill_ , Janie,” Darcy says. “Thor is also a prince, and he’s cool.”

“Thor never tried to kill us,” Jane points out. “What if he tries again? Or worse, what if the Queen doesn’t like me?”

Darcy’s grin stretches in a Grinch-like fashion. “Nervous about meeting the folks, eh?”

“Well, most people’s _‘folks’_ aren’t alien royalty, so …” Jane mutters. “Yes, I’m nervous. Wouldn’t you be?”

“Nah, of course not,” Darcy says. She reaches into Jane’s bag and rummages through it until she pulls out her hairbrush. “I’ve got my winning looks and charming personality— _ow!_ ”

Okay, so the tangles in her hair are worse than she’d originally thought. No big deal. She mercilessly drives the brush though it, likely ripping out half of her scalp in the process.

“Don’t forget your perfect manners,” Jane says dryly. “Oh, _Lord._ I’m an astrophysicist. I forget to eat and shower when I’m in the zone. I once spent three days wearing the same shirt because I was working on a complex calculation. I _don’t know how to talk to people—_ ”

“Janie,” Darcy says. “Hey, Janie. You’ll be _fine._ You’re awesome. What the hell do you think I’m still sticking around for? It’s sure as hell not physics.”

“Still! Lord, Darce, you know your political science.” She shakes her head. “Thor’s a _prince_. His mum was probably expecting him to date a lady or a princess or something, and instead, she gets _me._ ”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Darcy interrupts, driving her hands up. “Are you seriously insulting my best friend by insinuating she’s somehow less awesome than a posh Asgardian lady-princess who’s never had to lift anything heavier than a spoon in her entire, very long life?”

Jane opens her mouth to say something, but Darcy silences her with a defiant “Shush!”

“No, no, no. Fuck no. My best buddy Jane Foster, _PhD_ , who went around camping in a New Mexico desert looking for something all those stuffy know-it-all science dudes thought was impossible, and not only found _it_ , but also the _undeniable_ proof of alien life in form of a hot buff dude and his equally hot buff friends? My friend, who built most of her equipment herself, _on a budget_ , with scrap parts, spit, and sheer fucking madness? My friend, who had S.H.I.E.L.D. steal all her research, yet never gave up? Jane Foster? _That_ Jane Foster? _Doctor_ Jane Foster?”

Jane’s eyes grow as wide as saucers. “Well … I mean. When you put it _that_ way …”

“There’s no other way to put it, Jane,” Darcy says, brow curving. “And if anyone thinks differently, then frankly …” she shrugs, “they can fuck off.”

Jane exhales, and smiles. Darcy counts it as a win. “I’d like to see you try and tell the Queen of Asgard to fuck off.”

Darcy crosses her hands over her chest. “You think I wouldn’t?”

“No, I think you would, and enjoy every second of it,” Jane assures her, shaking her head. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Good,” Darcy says, smile taking on a feral undertone. “Now let’s pack.”

* * *

The Quinjet ride is long and boring. Her iPod runs out of power somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, and all she’s left with is the overly excited Jane going through her notes, occasionally rambling about some … physics-y thing, and the impassive, emotionless S.H.I.E.L.D. agent in a perfectly crisp suit and hair pulled up in a bun so tight Darcy thinks it’s a wonder she still has blood circulation in her face.

She alternates between smiling fondly at the former’s excitement and wondering about the latter.

New York arrives at the horizon in all its glory, the setting sun painting the sky in all shades of orange and red. Darcy grins when she sees the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, and next to it, the newest addition—the Stark Tower. Their goal, from what the _other_ S.H.I.E.L.D. agent told them, a stuffy, massive guy with a faint French accent.

Oh, man … she’d always wanted to visit New York, but she never thought it’s be under these circumstances. It makes her strangely giddy. Oh, alien royals and weather anomalies that turn out to be wormholes. What a life she lives!

The Quinjet descends on a free lot at the very top of Stark Tower, and Darcy all but jumps from excitement as the ramp slowly falls open. Her painful-on-the-eyes-pink suitcase, and Jane’s much more subdued black one are taken by the _third_ stuffy S.H.I.E.L.D. agent—a dark-skinned man the size of a mountain with close-cropped hair, wearing the stereotypical black suit, cool shades, and an earpiece.

Ooooh, she doesn’t have to carry her own stuff!

Two people are waiting at the Tower’s terrace, and neither are S.H.I.E.L.D. She can recognize both.

There is Thor, wearing his cool battle armour from New Mexico, except his cape is missing. His hair is longer than it was back then, and his handsome face is stretched into a brightest smile she’s ever seen on a person. If she were to turn around, she knows she’d see it mirrored on Jane’s own face.

When she looks at the man next to him, Darcy’s first thought is that he’s much shorter in person than on TV. Tony- _motherfucking-_ Stark, Iron Man himself, is standing next to her, dressed in a _Black Sabbath_ T-shirt, through which the arc reactor in his chest glows like blue Christmas lights. He is grinning as well, though his seems more along the lines of _I’m awesome and I know it_.

Well. Darcy agrees. Tony Stark is fucking awesome.

She opens his mouth to say something, but doesn’t get far, Jane passing her in a whirlwind and smashing into Thor with the force that could probably knock a man over. Luckily, Thor is a tad tougher than your average human.

Just a tad.

“Well, then,” Darcy says. “I’m glad you’re happy.”

She is ignored in favour of Jane sucking at Thor’s mouth, and Thor returning in kind.

“Lord, now I know why Rhodey hates it when I make out with Pepper in public,” Tony- _motherfucking_ -Stark says next to her in a cheery tone. “Well, they’ll be a while. Want to get inside?”

Darcy turns her head to look at him, grinning. “ _‘Lord, now I know why Rhodey hates it when I make out with Pepper in public.’_ The first words I ever heard from Tony Stark. Man, I need that on a T-shirt.” She inclines her head.

Stark’s eyes widen, a smile curving his lips. “I like you,” he says. “Miss …?”

“Lewis. Darcy Lewis.”

He chuckles. “Really? Okay, we’ve got a 007 over here.”

“Zero-zero-seven? Excuse me, but I’m an _eleven_ ,” she says, mock-hurt.

“Okay, _Zero-zero-seven_ , wanna come inside? There’s booze, and I don’t just want to stand here until Dr Foster's mouth is free enough to actually answer all my questions.”

Darcy shrugs. “You had me at booze, man.” She squints. “You’re rich, right? I expect posh stuff, not the shit you can get at your local _Target_.”

“I shall endeavour to deliver, Zero-zero-seven,” Stark promises, and turns on his heel, towards the open penthouse.

“You read Shakespeare recently?” she jokes. “ _Shall? Endeavour?_ ”

“Nah,” Stark shrugs, pulling out two crystal glasses that probably cost more than Darcy’s entire wardrobe. “I just spent a few hours discussing the mechanics of the universe with Reindeer Games.”

“You do like your nicknames, don’t you?” she says, accepting one glass. The stuff inside is amber-coloured and smells lovely. “Do I even want to know who that is?”

He shrugs, taking a sip. “My buddy Lokes. He’s actually surprisingly knowledgeable about science stuff, of you can get over the language barrier.”

“Okay, okay,” Darcy says, holding up a hand. “ _Lokes._ As in … Loki. _The_ Loki. The one who tried to kill me and my friends, and a really cute puppy in New Mexico _Loki_?”

“Yep. That’s the one.”

Darcy wants to ask how the hell he can be so chill about all of this, but then thinks better of it. Eh. Like she’d give a fuck, either. “So … Loki … gets science?”

“Kinda …” Stark says. “There’s a language barrier, and I don’t mean that we speak different ones. It’s just … the way the Asgardians do science, and the way _we_ do science are fundamentally different. He gets the workings of the universe better than anyone I’ve ever met, but it’s nearly impossible for us to write down the knowledge he has in a way I can understand it.” He takes another sip. “Although, to be fair, we’ve only been working on it for a couple of hours.”

“Holy fuck,” Darcy says softly, with a lot of emotion, and finally takes a sip her own drink. It’s sweet and thick, and when it slides down her throat, it leaves a burning feeling in its wake. “You learn something new every day.”

“You’re telling me?” Stark says, grinning like a small boy on Christmas Eve. “I’ve got _Dr Jane Foster_ in my Tower. The genius mind behind the Foster Theory. I literally have so many questions to ask her. About the Einstein-Rosen Bridges. About—”

“What, questions your new crazy alien BFF can’t answer?” Darcy asks.

“Well, he _could_. I _tried_. But he answered something along the lines of _the power of the Bifröst is harnessed from the Eternal Flame through the Odinforce, and directed with the might of the Guardian’s will_. Don’t ask me what that means. I don’t know.” He takes another sip. “My science is engineering, his is fucking _magic_.”

“Huh. And the Mum?” Better scout out for Jane.

Stark’s eyes light up. “Her Amazing Majesticfulness. I swear, I could marry that woman.”

“She’s cool, then?”

“You have _no idea_.” He seems seriously in awe. It’s a strange expression on someone who is generally known as egoistical and arrogant to a fault. But then again, when did the media ever get _anything_ right? “I swear … you know when you watch a movie, and there’s a character who’s so fucking _vicious_ , but also so, so _fancy and proper_. She threatened Fury with interstellar war, and I wanted to kiss her.”

Darcy feels her jaw drop. “Hold up, hold up— _interstellar war_?!”

Tony makes a face. “Well, the word she used was _annihilation_ , but in her defence, Fury was being a dick.”

“Holy _fuck_.”

“Yep … she also somehow has both her scary alien kids eating out of her palm, so, yes. She’s fucking terrifying when she wants to be, but she does it with style.”

“Huh.”

Tony’s lips slant, “All in all not what _I_ ’d expect from a queen of an absolute monarchy. So … I don’t think your friend has much to worry about.”

Darcy’s smile falls, replaced by calculated coolness. “Whatever could you mean?”

“I mean,” Stark says, “that you were kinda obvious. No offence or anything. I am, after all, a genius.” He gives her one of his signature showman grins.

Darcy narrows her eyes. “I quite like you, Tony Stark.”


	19. XIX - Meet the Family

**XIX**

**Meet the Family**

Thor and Jane arrive sometime later, after Stark and Darcy have already finished off half the bottle, holding hands and looking at each other in a sickeningly cute way.

“My Lady Darcy!” Thor says, all cheery and happy, beaming down at her.

“Hey, Thor,” Darcy says. “Still muscly, I see. How’s space?”

Thor looks down at his arms as if to affirm the ‘ _muscly’_ bit for himself. “Space is fine.” If Darcy ever needs proof that Thor is, in fact, a golden retriever trapped in the body of a buff Space Viking, she’ll use this moment.

“And how’s Mew-Mew?” she says, eyeing the massive battle hammer Thor had hung at his belt. “She looks shiny.”

“She is newly polished,” Thor says, grinning. “Only the best for my dear Mjölnir.”

“Yes, sometimes I wonder if you prefer that hammer to me,” a new voice says from somewhere behind Darcy, female and British (or Asgard, she supposes)-accented.

Darcy turns on her heel, glass still in hand, and sees a petite woman rapidly approaching with an amused smile curving her lips. She is dressed in a relatively simple, floor-length gown made of what seems like embroidered auburn silk. Dark golden curls tumble down to her waist, framing an ethereally beautiful face.

“Your Majesticfullness!” Stark exclaims, eyes positively sparkling, and grabs the half-full bottle from the marble counter, as well as a clean crystal glass. “It’s afterparty time. Want some?”

The queen’s lips twist into a wry smile. “No, Lord Stark, but I thank you for your consideration. Now, let me see the famous Doctor Jane Foster,” she says, crossing over the final few steps, hands folded elegantly over her abdomen. “I have heard quite a bit about you, my child.”

“Jane,” Thor says, smiling in that nauseatingly lovesick way, “meet Frigga All-Mother, Queen of Asgard … my mother.”

“Erm … hi?” Jane stammers, eyes wide, and throws a helpless glance at Darcy, who supresses the urge bury her face in her hands. The queen, thank Lord, seems to find it charming. “It’s … erm … cool to meet you.”

_Cool?! Really, Jane?! Cool?!_

“You as well, Dr Foster. Thor has shared quite a bit about your time on Midgard together. He is … very fond of reminiscing.”

“Mother!” Thor groans. “This is unnecessary—”

“Awww …” Jane says, grinning, earlier hesitance all but forgotten. “You told your mum about me? That’s so sweet!”

“Over and over again,” the queen assures her with a mischievous smile. “He is quite taken with you, my dear.”

Jane’s face flushes red, and Darcy chimes in. “Why the hell wouldn’t he be, eh, Janie?”

She stands her ground when the queen turns to her, still smiling warmly. “And you must be the Lady Darcy, the valiant warrior who brought Thor down to his knees using his own power.”

Darcy grins. “What, the taser? Yup, that was me. Jeez, Thor, you didn’t tell me I had a _reputation_ in your fancy space kingdom!”

Thor smiles. “It must have slipped my mind, Darcy. I apologize.”

“You’re forgiven,” she says, “but only because I somehow can’t find it in me to be pissed at someone so pretty.”

“Lucky you, Point Break, lucky you,” Stark chuckles, pouring himself another shot.

“Uuuh, _Point Break_?” Darcy says, crossing her arms. “Is that another one of your nicknames?”

“Of course. If you don’t get one, that must mean I don’t like you,” he explains.

“Awww … so you like me?”

“Sure, Zero-zero-seven.”

Jane frowns and mouths _Zero-zero-seven?_ in her direction. _Later_ , Darcy answers, equally quiet.

“Anyway,” she says. “How’s Erik? It’s been ages since we last saw him.”

“Avoiding my brother, probably,” Thor says, face falling, and _oh,_ they’re back at the topic of the homicidal baby brother. Not exactly what she was going for. “He needn’t bother, though,” Thor continues. “If I know Loki, he is likely pillaging Stark’s library.”

Darcy laughs. “Wait, so your brother’s a _bookworm_.” She congratulates herself at being able to avoid the lovely epithets such as _crazy_ , and _psychopathic_ , and _murderous_ in the presence of Thor and the queen.

Thor frowns. “I do not know that word.”

“Studious?” Jane tries. “Likes reading?” Darcy nods along, and Thor lets out a bright laugh.

“Indeed. I could have sworn, before all this, that his only desire was to burrow in the palace libraries and study tomes older than my father for the rest of his days.” His lips curve into a sad smile. “Do you remember, Mother, when he brought that huge history of Vanaheim to breakfast one day?”

Queen Frigga’s smile becomes melancholic. “He had been reading it all night long,” she says wistfully, “and would not stop for meagre obstacles such as food or sleep.”

“So,” Darcy tries, desperate to draw everyone’s attention from the complicated stuff, “we know where Erik _isn’t_ , then. How about where he _is_?”

“Hey, J,” Stark says, “give me a location on Dr Selvig?”

 _“The elevator, sir,”_ a British-accented voice comes out of nowhere, startling Darcy. _“He is on his way up here, having been informed of Dr Foster and Miss Lewis’s arrival._ ”

“Thanks,” Stark says.

“Is that …” Jane begins, but Darcy interrupts. “An _AI?!_ Like, and actual, real AI?”

Stark grins. “JARVIS.”

“Wow. JARVIS, man, you’re really cool,” Darcy says, giggling.

 _“Thank you, Miss Lewis,”_ JARVIS says, sounding pleased.

Her grin widens, just in the beat with the elevator door opening, revealing Erik, looking a bit exhausted, but overall fine. There’s a whirlwind again, Jane sprinting from Thor’s side to throw her arms around Erik’s neck.

“Man,” Darcy says, marching up to them, “I wish I got such reactions when I appear out of nowhere. But no, it’s always, _‘What are you doing here?’_ or _‘You weren’t invited’,_ or _‘Ma’am, this is the university lawn, not a nudist beach’._ ” She grins at the stunned expressions of everyone around here. “College is weird.”

Stark shrugs, seeming to agree, and takes another sip. Lord, what Darcy would give to hear _his_ college stories. The man is wild enough _now_.

“Darcy,” Erik says, pulling her into a hug, “Your peculiar sense of humour always brightens my day.”

“Who said I was joking?” she says, pressing him tight. “Good to see you in one piece. I thought S.H.I.E.L.D. would vivisect you to get to that genius brain of yours.”

“That …” Erik frowns, “is not how that works. And even if it did—you let me go work for them, even when you thought they’d cut me to pieces?”

“Hey, I can’t make your decisions for you. I can barely make decisions for _myself_.”

“Finally, something we can all agree on,” Jane mutters.

“Hey!”

Gradually, they extract themselves from each other’s grasps, and move to the fancy leather couch.

“So, you two,” Erik says, settling in, “How was Tromsø? Don’t tell me that Jane has discovered _yet another_ alien race? Frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“I wish,” Jane mutters. “But we were only there for a few days. Thank Lord, I suppose. Norway is really lovely. I don’t know why you ever left.”

Erik smiles humourlessly. “The opportunities were better in America back then, I guess. And if I didn’t, I’d never have met your father, and consequently, you.”

She smiles. “I guess we’re all lucky, then.”

“Your life is so fucking weird,” Darcy huffs.

“And yours isn’t?” Jane says slyly. “We’re in the same mess, Darce.”

“Yes, well, _I_ am not dating an alien prince,” she reminds her friend, tone saccharine. “A big, hot as fuck, alien prince. I know some girls dream of being princesses, but holy fuck, Janie, the way it’s usually gone about is seducing _Earthly_ royalty.”

“I didn’t do it _on purpose_!” Jane protests. “It just … sort of … happened, okay? Besides, I’ve only ever dreamed of being a scientist.”

“I wanted to be bus driver,” Erik says, smiling. “Stand behind the wheel and drive people back and forth all day long.”

“How’d you move from bus driver to physicist?” Darcy asks.

Erik shrugs. “I went to school, I guess.”

“Yeah, fair enough,” Darcy concludes, then grimaces. “Oh, _Lord_ …”

“What is it?”

“Promise you won’t tell anyone, or ever, _ever_ use it against me?” Darcy says, still cringing. She shuts her eyes and worries the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “I wanted to be a princess … in space.”

Jane bursts out laughing.

“Cruel, cruel irony …” Darcy huffs. “When I told my mum that, she laughed. You _met_ my mum, Janie, you _met my mum_. My mum met an _actual space princess_.”

“I don’t know about that …” Jane says, blushing.

“Shush, Jane,” Darcy says, holding up a hand, and grinning. “You stole my childhood dream, now you better make something out of it.”

“I don’t think I’m really princess material,” Jane says. “And I’d never give up my research.”

“Yes, well, you’ll be able to do it much better on an alien planet,” Erik says.

Jane chuckles. “Why do I have the feeling that the two of you are trying to marry me off and reap the benefits?”

“What? Us?” Darcy says, as flat as she can. “Never.”

Jane hums. “Tell me a few more times and I might just believe you.”

“Look, my best friend is about to become a space princess—” Jane makes a noise of protest. “Shut up, you are. My best friend’s about to become a space princess, and as both Erik and I were part of the circumstances that led you there, I think we deserve some recognition.”

“And some benefits,” Erik chimes in.

“ _And_ some benefits,” Darcy echoes. “It’s simple, really.”

Jane nods, pursing her lips. “Your logic astounds me.”

“It should,” Erik says earnestly. “I never thought I’d say this, but I completely agree with Darcy.”

“Thank yo— _hey_!” she exclaims. “That’s actually really rude.”

“You’ll survive,” Erik says, curving a brow.

“That’s no excuse,” she protests.

“Live with it,” Jane says. “If we had it your way, we’d never have met Thor at all, and he’d have been left stranded in the desert. Lord knows what would have happened then.”

They talk some more, eventually joining back in with Thor, Stark, the queen, as well as an unassuming man wearing glasses who Darcy soon learns to be none other than Dr Bruce Banner, _the Hulk_.

And he’s here, purple shirt neatly tucked into black trousers, glasses resting among his fluffy, slightly-greying curls.

Holy fuck, her life is weird.

She tries not to stare. It’s not easy, but she does it.

Half an hour later, Stark calls for dinner. Oh fuck. She is going to eat dinner in the Stark Tower. With Tony Stark.

He leads them to a tastefully decorated dining room, in the middle of which perches a long table set for eight, laden with covered trays like fancy people do in movies, so that Darcy has absolutely no idea what’s on the menu.

“Thor,” the queen says, “do drag your brother from wherever he has holed himself up with a book, will you?”

Thor nods, leaving Mjölnir on one of the chairs. The queen eyes the hammer with fond exasperation before lowering herself regally into the chair next to it, Jane taking the place opposite of her. Darcy slides into a seat between her and Dr Banner, Erik at her other side. Stark sits opposite of Banner. Which leaves the place in front of Darcy … the only one left.

Oh, fuck.

Without much ado, Stark lifts the lids to reveal … not at all posh people food. There’s fries, and chicken, and veggies, and soup, but even though she’s sure some masterchef prepared it all, it’s as simple as one gets.

Huh. She’d expected stuff like … caviar, and salmon, and a selection of smelly cheeses, all arranged so posh that one can never be sure if they are eating a meal or a piece of abstract art. As a matter of fact, posh people food tends to be nicer than most stuff in the modern galleries, so …

She dives right in.

And Thor chooses that moment to swoop back in, Loki at his heels. Darcy doesn’t even bother pretending she’s not staring. Considering everything the bastard has put her through, he can deal with a bit of staring.

He’s tall. Even Thor only has a few centimetres on him.

That’s where the similarities end.

While Thor is huge and brawny, Loki is lean, bordering on emaciated. In place of Thor’s golden hair, Loki’s is raven black, framing an alabaster-white face. Where Thor boasts the kind of warm, rugged handsomeness that makes him both admired and approachable, Loki possesses a frigid, ethereal sort of beauty, evident in the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the Grecian nose, the high, noble brow.

In short, if Darcy had never understood a difference between _handsome_ and _beautiful_ , she would have learned now, looking at the brothers.

“Ah …” Loki says. His voice is deep, like his brother’s, but with a rolling sort of cadence in place of Thor’s roughness. “Your friends are here, I see.”

“C’mon, Reindeer Games,” Stark whines, and given that Loki doesn’t react in any way that’s … well, murderous, he must’ve heard the nickname before. It makes sense, considering that Stark’s never exactly been secretive when calling Darcy Zero-zero-seven, but then again, maybe she’d have expected him to act with more caution when it comes to Loki.

She is strangely relieved that is not the case.

“Don’t make this awkward,” Stark insists, patting the backrest of the chair next to him, opposite of Darcy.

Both brothers move forward to sit, Thor with a warrior’s confidence, his loud steps echoing the room, Loki’s feet soundless.

Darcy makes herself ignore the God of Mischief in front of her, and focuses instead on dipping her fries in ketchup. Y’know, like a mature adult.

“Tell me, Reindeer Games,” Stark says, “have you already begun the _Harry Potter_ series?”

Darcy blinks. Wait, what the fuck …

“I am nearing the conclusion of the first book,” Loki answers, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Lord.

“And?” Stark says, voice unbearably sweet. “How do you like it so far?”

Loki hums thoughtfully. “The magic depicted is … questionable, at best—” Stark snorts at that, “—however, I find myself quite taken with the plot.”

“Ha! There goes one item off my bucket list,” Stark boasts. “Make a wizard read _Harry Potter._ ”

“I am a sorcerer … not a wizard,” Loki mutters, though there’s a fondness in his voice.

“Semantics,” Stark says. “Now, why aren’t you eating?”

At this, Darcy just _has_ to look, dammit. Loki is sitting across from her, posture perfectly proper, while Stark is fussing around his empty plate. “I … I’m not hungry.”

“Nonsense,” Stark insists. “You’re thinner than a reed.”

“You _should_ eat, dearest,” Queen Frigga adds.

_Dearest?!_

_Lord._

“I _cannot_ ,” Loki insists, squirming uncomfortably in his seat. Up close, Darcy can see that his skin is more grey than white, his cutting cheekbones too sharp by far, and the dark circles nestled beneath brilliant green eyes. “The smell … Norns, I’ll be sick.”

The queen frowns, and gives her son a once-over. “When is the last time you ate?”

He shrugs, as a cold sort of calm washes over Frigga’s face. “All right. Let us do it the harder way.”

“Mother, _please_ ,” he tries, but the queen will not be deterred.

“Did you eat anything while on Midgard?” Her tone is patient, in a way that reminds Darcy of herself when she is trying to hoist some food on Jane while deep in research.

Loki squirms under her gaze, emerald eyes fixed on his plate. “There was no time.”

“It has been three days,” Frigga says. “And I sincerely doubt you’ve been well cared for in the clutches of the Chitauri.”

He hides his flinch at the name well, and Darcy is intrigued. There’s more to the story, apparently, and while she isn’t surprised, she is brimming with curiosity.

“Do we really have to do this?” Loki demands, words sharp. “I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

Frigga and Thor’s brows rise in unison, and it’s almost comical. Loki gives them both a disgruntled, long-suffering look. “Please,” he sighs, colour high in his cheeks. “I cannot.”

The queen’s eyes are unreadable. “You can. You just need to start lightly. There is soup, is there not?”

Stark nods enthusiastically, and reaches for the soup bowl.

“I hate you all,” Loki mutters as they fill his plate.

“I love you too, Reindeer Games,” says Stark, patting his shoulder.


	20. XX - The Intern and the Astrophysicist

**XX**

**The Intern and the Astrophysicist**

The rest of the dinner passes by surprisingly easily. Jane and Thor are deep in conversation all the while, with occasional comments thrown in by Erik and Queen Frigga, whose main concern seems to be getting her youngest kid not to starve himself to death, with assistance from Stark, who’d apparently imprinted on him.

Darcy finds herself talking with Dr Banner of all people. She actually manages last for full quarter of an hour before she expresses her admiration for his big, green alter-ego.

Dr Banner’s smile grows stilted at first, until he realises that Darcy is genuine in her admiration. That alone makes Darcy want to adopt him, and wrap him in blankets, because after all of fifteen minutes of conversation, she has found him to be one of the sweetest beings she’s ever met.

 _So what_ if he turns into a giant green rage monster here and there? Releasing your anger is therapeutic, or so she’s heard.

And so Darcy Lewis survives a dinner with her best friend, her mentor/father figure, Iron Man, the Hulk and three alien royals with godly powers.

And with no casualties. Who would ever have thought.

They stay at the table long after the food is finished, and Darcy is honestly surprised at how _casual_ it is. Jane is talking to her boyfriend and doing a very good job of impressing his mum, Tony and Loki are discussing the theory of magic and science, and other things Darcy can’t hope to understand, and she and Dr Banner—who’d asked her to call him Bruce, and she’d nearly fangirled right then and there—have somehow ended up comparing their opinions of _Lord of the Rings_ of all things.

All in all … it is … fun.

Good.

When they finally all retreat for the night, Darcy finds herself unable to rest, tossing and turning in her sleeping shirt and sweats. The adrenalin of the day isn’t wearing off, and the noises of New York are too loud, even this high up, and while she’s sure Stark has devised some way of dealing with that in this ridiculously high tech tower of his, she can’t be bothered to look for it.

So she rolls out of bed and makes her way for the common room. Maybe a bit of fresh air will help.

Except she, apparently, isn’t the only one who got a similar idea.

“Oh,” she groans. “It’s you.”

Loki raises his eyes from his book, _The Chamber of Secrets_ , she thinks. He is sitting on one of the couches, a steaming mug of tea on the low-lying coffee table in front of him.

“Miss Lewis.”

“Oh, so _you_ get how Earth titles and honorifics work, but Thor doesn’t.”

His pale lips curve. “Thor is not … ah, the most learned of creatures.”

Darcy grins. “That’s not very nice.”

“I am not _nice_ ,” he says, shrugging. “And besides, it is the truth.” He is wearing much simpler clothes now, a white shirt that makes him look even paler than he already is and a pair of dark green trousers. He’s kept the boots, she thinks, and the ornate golden vambraces strapped to his forearms.

“So, do you expect to be ambushed and attacked here or something,” she says, settling herself into the chair opposite of his.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The armour,” she says, inclining her head to his arms. “Might as well carry an axe or something.”

He smirks. “An axe? Why, I’ve always preferred daggers. And besides, I need not _carry around_ a weapon to be armed at all times.”

She can almost her _like you pathetic beings_ spoken in his posh accent.

Well, so long as he doesn’t openly say it, she’s content _not_ pouncing at his throat. Not that that would do her much good.

“So,” she says conversationally, seeing as he’s already returned to his book, “You tried to kill me once, remember?”

Well. That gets her a reaction. “I do.” He shrugs. “Not you in particular, if that is what you are wondering, but I do recall the events. You were with my brother in New Mexico, yes?”

“Yes.” She chuckles, shaking her head in incredulity. “Wow. Here I am, calmly chatting with a guy who tried to _murder me_. And he doesn’t even remember me.”

“Well,” he says, “I was a bit distracted at the time.”

“Oh, really?” She laughs. “With what, exactly? Torturing puppies?”

His brow furrows. “Torturing puppies?”

“Never mind,” she says, waving a hand. “Just answer the damn question.”

“All right, then,” he says, carefully marking the page in his book, and sets it down on the coffee table. Interlacing his fingers together, he smiles venomously. “I was King Regent of a realm at the brink of a war, with Odin incapacitated, the queen who wouldn’t leave his side as my only support, a people who would greatly enjoy seeing my head on a pike to rule over, and betrayed by the ones whom I had counted among my friends.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” she says, “you have _friends_?!”

He gives her a withering glare. “Apparently not, seeing as it took them all of three hours to commit treason against me for the simple crime of not being Thor.”

Darcy makes a face, remembering the four warriors who had marched into Puente Antiguo, brandishing axes and swords. “Tough luck.”

“Indeed.”

“Still. No excuse.”

“Did I claim otherwise?”

At this, she grins. “At least you’re self-aware.”

The corner of his lips quirks up, but there is no humour glinting in his eyes. “Not necessarily.”

“So … what happened then?”

“Do you really think I have any interest in relating my entire life story to you?” he asks. His voice is cold, expression haughty, poker face _phenomenal_. Not a single flinch or quirk, nothing to latch onto and read. And yet …

Somewhere in the back of her head she is aware that it is the product of over a thousand years’ worth of practice, and she is _in her twenties._ There is absolutely _nothing_ to indicate it, but Darcy just _knows_ he’s uncomfortable right now.

No, _uncomfortable_ might not be the right word, but she has no better.

She grins. “Well, if you’re interested …”

“Trust me, Miss Lewis, I am not.”

“Too bad.” She leans forward and fishes a handful of salted peanuts from the bowl on the coffee table. Popping a few in the mouth, she adds. “I have a feeling it’s be better than any Turkish soap out there.” He frowns slightly at the reference. “But I guess I can always ask Thor.”

He snorts. “Optimistic of you to think Thor has the wit or understanding to comprehend what had occurred.”

She squints. “I don’t think you’re giving him enough credit.”

“Oh,” Loki says, waving a hand regally, “he is clever enough, do not mistake my meaning. The crux of the problem lies in the fact that he has never had to employ that cleverness of his and learn to think for himself.”

Darcy laughs. “Well that’s unfair. Who did the thinking then?”

Loki’s dark brow curves pointedly.

“What, you?” She laughs again.

“Is that so difficult to believe, Miss Lewis,” Loki says, lips curved in amusement. “I had my brother’s ear once, even if he has not heeded my advice in decades. Perhaps if he had, we would not be here now.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” she asks, crossing her arms.

He just smirks. “I said I shan’t relate my life story. Have you forgotten already, Miss Lewis?”

She scoffs. “Bastard. You give me just enough to taunt me, and then take it all away.”

“How terribly cruel of me,” he says flatly, features twisted into one of the finest bitchfaces Darcy’s ever seen. “I do hope you shall find it within your heart to forgive me.”

Darcy just laughs. “Lord, you’re weird.”

“I … am uncertain how to reply to that.”

“Good. Now I can brag I’ve confused the God of Mischief himself.” She grins and snatches the peanut bowl off the table. “Good night to you, then.”

Before she is about to turn the corner, she says, “And before I forget … Snape kills Dumbledore!”

Loki’s indignant spluttering follows her to her room.

Where Jane is waiting, sprawled on her bed, phone in hand. The white of the screen illuminates her face.

“I … erm, am I in the wrong room or something?” Darcy says, setting the bowl down on the nightstand. “Because that’s my suitcase right there.”

The bright pink is easy to spot even in the dark.

“No, no, it’s your room,” Jane says quickly, sitting up, and stuffing her phone in her jacket pocket. “It’s just …” She smiles, bright and brilliant. “I wanted to talk.”

“Huh. And it couldn’t have waited until … I dunno, morning?” Darcy says, leaning onto the doorframe.

“Well …” even in the dark, she can see the blush seeping into Jane’s cheeks.

“Relax,” Darcy says, closing the door behind her. “I’m just messing with you. So … how was your romantic getaway with Thor?” she says, batting her lashes.

“Oh, hush. Don’t call it that.”

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Darcy reminds her, and sees a soft, lovesick smile spreading across Jane’s face.

“It was really cool,” she admits.

“Cool, how? Give me the details!”

She smiles sheepishly. “He took me flying.”

Darcy feels her lips curving. “Okay, that’s cool.” Only now does she notice that Jane’s hair is a mess. No wonder, if she’d been flying. Lord only knows what magic Thor uses to keep his hair so perfect at all times.

Jane nods enthusiastically. “It was … incredible. I’d never thought I’d see New York like this.”

Darcy purses her lips. “Yeah, I’d say flying over it with your alien, God of Thunder boyfriend is not something you could have really anticipated.”

Jane throws a pillow at her.

“Rude,” Darcy mumbles, after it hits her face. “Am I allowed to know what you talked about?” She bends down to pick the pillow up. If Stark’s tastes so far are anything to go by, the pillow alone is probably worth more money than she’s ever had.

She gestures for Jane to move over and plops to the bed next to her.

Jane smiles again, a strange glow in her eyes. “He and his family will go back to Asgard in a week, using the Tesseract. They can’t go before that, apparently Loki is still too weak from whatever has happened to him to survive.” She shrugs. “Anyway, they can use the Tesseract to fix the Bifröst, and then … he said he’ll try to convince his dad to allow us to visit. His mum is on-board, apparently, but it’s Odin who makes the final call.”

“Holy fuck,” Darcy huffs. “You’re gonna—wait, did you say ‘ _us’_?”

She laughs. “You think I’d want to visit an alien planet without my most loyal intern, or Erik?”

Darcy chuckles. “This is _visiting an alien planet_ we’re talking about Janie. Yes, yes I do, and I couldn’t even blame you.”

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that,” Jane says resolutely. “Because we’re all going to go.”

“I’d like that,” Darcy says. “Try Asgardian booze, and all that. Maybe they’re even gonna give us posh dresses to wear.”

“Well,” Jane says with a shit-eating grin, “you _did_ always want to be a space princess …”

“Shut up!” Darcy screeches, and throws the pillow back into Jane’s face. “I told you that in confidence.” Something comes to her mind, then, and she grins. “I suppose that now I don’t have to tell you _how much interest_ Stark has exposed in your work … how he nearly _fangirled_ right in front of me … how there is a high chance he’d want to fund you.”

Jane’s eyes grow wide. “Darcy …”

“I’m not overreacting, really,” Darcy promises.

“I …”

“Jeez, Janie, have I broken you?” She chuckles, shifting into a more comfortable position on the bed.

“Oh, shut up. Lord, if he did … I wouldn’t have to be at S.H.I.E.L.D.’s beck and call anymore …” She laughs. “I … oh, _Lord._ Oh, _Lord_.”

“I _have_ broken you, haven’t I?” Darcy says, her voice dripping with wry amusement.

“Hush. It’s not funny.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I find it supremely funny, Janie.”

“Don’t you _Janie_ me,” she hisses. “Were you serious? I somehow can’t imagine _Tony Stark_ as someone willing to admit anyone’s as clever as he is.”

Darcy shrugs. “Neither would I have, yesterday. But I’ve seen him with Bruce and Loki. I think he likes clever people. Likes to have someone who can keep up with him.”

“Isn’t he supposed to be … you know, impossibly arrogant, convinced of his own worth, absorbed by his own ego?” Jane asks, resting her head on her closed fist.

Darcy considers. “I think he _acts_ impossibly arrogant, convinced of his own worth, and absorbed by his own ego. It’s a … persona, I’d say. One that he keeps up for the public and strangers, and not many people can get close enough, or have sharp enough senses to see through it.”

“Okay, but if what you’re saying is true …” Jane says, frowning, “why would he _want_ to convince the rest of the world that he’s an arsehole, when he doesn’t have to?” There’s a hint of hurt in her voice, and Darcy sympathizes.

“Look at it like this—we don’t know much about his private life. Unlike you, he doesn’t _have_ to suck up to idiots to get funding and have his genius recognized. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t want to go all Stark on their arses.” She smiles knowingly, and Jane relents.

“Maybe.”

“Eh, I’ll take it. My point is—his defences, A.K.A., the arsehole persona, are probably designed to protect him against something else entirely.” She shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t know what.”

Jane frowns. “Maybe. But … I’m still not sure I would actually _want_ to work for Stark Industries.”

Darcy smiles. “Then don’t. You don’t _have to_. But do me a favour—if Stark tries to breach the topic with you, at least give it a chance, eh?”

“I’d be a fool if I didn’t,” Jane admits.

“There—you see!” She grabs the bowl she’d swiped, and thrusts it forward, to Jane. “Peanuts?”

Jane rolls her eyes, but does take the offered peanuts, so Darcy counts it as a win. “So,” she says, “what are _you_ doing up?”

Darcy exhales loudly. “I couldn’t sleep. So, I figured I’d go get some air, and then I happened upon Tall, Dark, and Murderous in the living room.” She pauses, stroking her chin.

Jane’s dark eyes go wide. “Are you … are you all right?”

“Sure,” Darcy says, nodding. “He was reading _Harry Potter_. We had a snarky conversation. I told him Snape kills Dumbledore.”

“You _what_?!” Jane splutters. “Oh, Lord, he’s gonna kill us all.”

“Yeah, I know,” Darcy says, grinning. “Spoilers are a bitch. Come to think of it, he’s a bitch as well. Certainly has the bitchface down to art.”

“I … I won’t even try to untangle that sentence,” Jane huffs. “Anyway …”

They talk and talk about every possible topic, until the dawn begins peeking over the horizon, and in the late morning hours, they awaken, snuggling up to Darcy’s pillows, and continue where they stopped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm just gonna throw any kind of an update schedule away. Because I apparently can't seem to pin a Wednesday. *sigh*
> 
> See, y'all next week, my lovelies!


	21. XXI - A Bother and Sister-in-Law Have an Honest Discussion

**XXI**

**A Bother and Sister-in-Law Have an Honest Discussion**

When Jane walks into the penthouse’s living room late in the morning, she sees Tony Stark himself, reviewing some sort of correspondence on one of his holographic screens.

Watching it alone is fascinating. This is the sort of technology Jane has never thought she would actually see. Oh, she had dreamed, but soon enough her radical ideas cast her out to the fringes of the scientific community, and even if they were all but confirmed in New Mexico, Jane is fully aware that the top-of-the line equipment some of her colleagues use will never be accessible to her.

Well … if Darcy is right about Stark, then maybe.

Stark finishes the document off with a quick formation of his gaudy signature, and flashes her a brilliant smile.

“Oh,” says she, feeling heat pour into her cheeks, “hi.”

“Why, hello there,” he says. Grinning wider.

“Right,” Jane stutters, cursing her inability to damn _converse_ with other human beings. “Erm. Morning. Have you, uh, seen Thor, by any chance?”

Stark shrugs. “He went out for a flight, I believe.”

Memories of last night’s outing swarm, and lift her spirits somewhat, only to be undone instantly when she remembers the other two Æsir in this city. “And what about—”

“Reindeer Games went out for a walk in the city with Her Majesticfullness,” Stark provides helpfully. “And if you were wondering if bloody Asgardians look any less pretty in our humble Earthly clothing, the answer is no, they do not.”

Jane blinks. “No. I was not. Wondering.” Well, to be fair, the first time she has ever seen Thor _was_ in so-called _‘humble Earthly clothing’_ , so …

“Ah,” Stark says, shrugging. “Must only be me, then. Oh well. Anyway. Brucie-Bear is playing with Dr Selvig in my lab, and I don’t have any idea where Zero-zero-seven is.”

“She’s … asleep,” Jane says, frowning. “In her bed.”

“Hey,” says he, holding up his hands, “I don’t make a habit of spying on people who live under my roof. Well,” he amends then, with a grin, “not always, at least.

Jane’s brows shoot up, lips parting to say she doesn’t know what.

“Sheesh,” Stark says, shoulders shaking with supressed laughter. “I was _joking_.”

“I see,” she says, eyes daring wildly around the room until she spots the bar, and a coffee maker on top of it. She looks at the cold mug on the low-lying table in front of Stark. “What some coffee? Yours has gone cold.”

Stark casts a quick glance at the still-full mug and grimaces. “Yeah. That’d be awesome. Black, two sugars, please. Thanks.”

She shrugs, and makes her way to the coffee machine, swiping two clean mugs from under the bar.

“So,” he says conversationally, banishing the holographic screens with more paperwork, “Natasha and Clint said they’d be coming by later, and Steve’s currently working it off in the gym.”

Jane gives him a puzzled look, and he sighs. “Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton, S.H.I.E.L.D.’s finest, and Steve Rogers, also known as Captain America.”

Jane feels her eyes grow wide, just as the coffee machine signals the finished beverages. “Captain— _Captain America_ is coming?” she squeals. “He is _here_?!”

“Yup, arrived early this morning, and you and Zero-zero-seven missed him only by a few hours yesterday.”

“Oh, Lord,” Jane says, shaking her head. “Captain America,” she whispers in awe. “ _Lord_. He was … he was my hero when I was a kid. My dad loved him.”

Stark’s grin turns sour. “I’m sure he was a lot of kids’ hero. He’s a good guy. A bit too assured of other people’s morals, a bit stuck-up, a bit old-fashioned …”

“Yeah,” Jane snorts, “I’d figured that last one.” She sets his coffee down on the low-lying table, and sits on the couch opposite of him, her own cup nestled between her hands. Stark flashes her a grateful smile and takes a sip.

“Anyway … hm.” He cocks his head. “How are you with learning S.H.I.E.L.D.’s top-secret stuff?”

“Are you asking me if I _want_ you to share classified intel with me?” Jane says, one brow shooting up. Then she shrugs. “Sure. S.H.I.E.L.D and I aren’t exactly on the … best of terms.”

He smiles. “Don’t you work for them?”

She grimaces. “Only out of necessity, _believe me_. After all the stuff that happened in New Mexico …” she frowns. “You do know that it was us who’d …”

“Oh, yes,” Tony says, waving a hand flippantly. “I’ve hacked into S.H.I.E.L.D.’s files more times than I can count. Most of the time, it’s for fun, and I don’t really read all that shit, because I can’t be bothered but …” he shrugs. “The New Mexico was the first mention of Asgard ever, and when you’re dealing with an enemy who introduces himself as _Loki of Asgard_ … I didn’t even have to do the hacking. I did that later, for a completely different reason.”

“I see,” she says, hiding her smile behind her coffee mug. She doesn’t think she is successful, from the way _his_ smile widens. “Well … I’m only with them because I … technically discovered aliens in New Mexico, and they offered me funding.”

Stark frowns. “Oh, no, no, Dr Foster. We’ll talk about _that_ later.”

Jane remembers Darcy’s words, and her heart soars.

“Right now, I’m going to share some lovely S.H.I.E.L.D. secrets with you,” he continues. “You see, our friend Nick Fury had this idea, of forcing a bunch of highly egoistical, in some way superpowered people to work together.” He smiles. “He calls it the _Avengers Initiative_.”

“I really don’t see …”

“How that has anything to do with this?” He leans back in the couch. “Why, Dr Foster, allow me to enlighten you. You see, Reindeer Games arrived with a flash. So much flash, in fact, that Nick Fury figured it’s about time to put that idea into action. We didn’t _need_ to fight a whole alien army in the end, for obvious reasons, but …”

“But you’ve warmed up to the idea,” She realizes, a slow smile spreading over her face. “And now …” _you want to put it in action._

“And now, we’re going to see if we can make something of this. So, that’s why Captain America, the Hulk and Iron Man are already here, and Black Widow and Hawkeye are yet to arrive.”

She blinks. “Black Widow and Hawkeye?”

“Romanoff and Barton,” Stark explains. “Flashy, am I right?”

“Say the _Iron Man_ ,” she counters.

“Eh,” he says, “I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

“So you did,” says Jane, inclining her head. “Strange. I’d never have pegged you as one for teamwork.”

“Honestly?” Stark says, stroking is chin, “Neither did I. But working with these guys? It was fun. And I became Iron Man to help people, and if this is the best way to do it …” he shrugs. “There’s something comforting in knowing you have a team to watch your back. Besides,” he adds, “you never know when something like this can happen again, and I don’t think we can count on it being resolved the same way as this.”

“Sage words,” Jane says, a sarcastic tilt to her lips. “Especially for one so lauded for his shallowness.” It seems there is indeed more to Stark than meets the eye. A lot more.

“Now really, Dr Foster,” Stark says, pressing a hand to his chest, to the arc reactor. “You wound me with your hurtful words.”

She grimaces. “Oh, Lord. _Sage_? _You wound me?_ ” She shakes her head. “We’ve been spending too much time with Asgardians lately.”

“Okay, yeah, you’re right. Fuck’s sake.” He lets out a breathless laugh.

“At least I said _Lord_ ,” she mutters, chuckling. “Thor prefers these … Norns.” It’s a small victory, but, eh …

“You’re telling me?” Stark says, brows shooting up. “I can’t even count how many times I’ve heard _‘Norns alive!’_ in a very irritated tone of voice.”

She can’t help the slight curve of her lips at the image of Loki rolling his eyes in an exasperated fashion at Stark. Somehow … somehow it makes him less terrifying, less … _other._

“And the very posh British accent, don’t forget that,” she says. She frowns at her mug of coffee. “I feel like we need wine for this conversation.” They’re already gossiping like teenage girls, anyway.

“Oh, my,” Stark says, “isn’t it a little too early for drinking?”

 _Really? You, a renowned alcoholic says that?_ She sends him a withering glare, but Stark gets up and pulls a bottle and two glasses from behind the bar.

“Now,” he says, returning to his seat and pouring the sparkling wine. “What’s new with your chosen Asgardian? _I_ , for one, am totally adopting Reindeer Games.”

Jane blinks. Is he really … _what?_

“I mean,” he continues, “he’s smart, appreciates my wonderful sense of humour—” Jane snorts at that, “— _shares_ it, in fact, and also, there’s the fact that his voodoo actually kind of rewrites the source code of the universe, and I want to understand that. I just don’t feel like Her Majesticfullness would actually _consent_ to it, but I’ll see what I can do about shared custody or something.”

Well, this definitely goes at the very peak of her _top ten weirdest conversations Jane Foster has ever had_ list.

I …” she offers him a faint smile. “I guess that … when I first met Thor, I wanted to know everything, too?” She understands the urge, perhaps?

“See?” he says, pointing at her with his wineglass, “you get it. Now what would I do with my very own aliens but pick their brains?”

“I’m not sure they’d agree on being _yours_ , or _picking the brains_ part,” Jane says, her smile widening and becoming more natural. Stark _is_ charming, in his own way.

“Ah, come on. You did it yourself. It’s not fair I’m the only one crucified for it.”

“Well, yes,” she agrees, reclining back in her seat and folding her legs under her, “but Thor and I had an agreement—he tells me all I want to know about the Einstein-Rosen Bridge, and I help him get his hammer back.”

Stark snorts. “Well, our dear aliens are living in a tower that just so happens be mine, so I’d say I’m providing housing in return for magic tricks.”

“Ah, yeah, the name _Stark_ in huge glowing letters at the side of the tower kind of gave it away as yours.”

“You wound me ever so grievously, Dr Foster, do you know that?”

She opens her mouth to say something else when the elevator door opens.

For half a second, Jane hopes that it’s Romanoff and Barton who are arriving.

No such luck.

Thor’s mother and brother walk out, with the sort of regal grace _he_ rarely displays. The queen, wearing a billowing white shirt and a knee-length pale blue pencil skirt has one hand looped through her son’s elbow. It is strange seeing her in human clothes after getting used to the fancy gowns and whatnot. Distantly, Jane remembers Stark’s comment.

“Jane, dearest,” Queen Frigga greets, smiling fondly.

“Ma’am,” Jane replies, feeling herself blush … again. Lovely.

“Your Majesticfulness!” Stark exclaims, as enthusiastic as ever. “How was your walk?”

“Why, Lord Stark, it was quite lovely,” the queen answers. “I thank you. Your city has many points of interest.”

Stark says something else, but Jane isn’t paying attention, choosing rather to focus her attention to Loki, wearing a crisp black suit, beautiful in its simplicity. He seems eager to melt in with the wall behind him and disappear, pale hands twisting together, gaze darting everywhere. Resolve builds up in her chest.

Stark calls her name, and she turns to him.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “But … would it be too bothersome to all of you if I asked to speak with Loki alone?”

Loki snaps his gaze to her, emerald eyes boring into hers with an unreadable expression. The full power of his attention is overwhelming, to say the least, but she resists and holds his gaze as Stark and the queen shuffle away, raising her chin in defiance.

Silence falls.

“Well,” he says finally, shrugging off his suit jacket and folding it over his forearm, revealing the white shirt and patterned green waistcoat beneath. “Do you intend to talk, or shall we stare at each other until Ragnarök, Dr Foster?”

 _You did not think this through, Foster,_ Jane thinks.

“At least you agree there’s something to talk about,” she finds herself saying, praying he doesn’t make notice of the way her knuckles whiten on her wineglass.

“Oh, there is a lot,” he says, voice soft. “So much that I wonder should we do better to keep to our silence.”

Jane steels herself. “I love Thor. And he loves me.” She looks him up and down, seeking some reaction, but gleans nothing. “And … if that progresses … we’d be family, you and I. Leaving these things unsaid would do more harm than good then. That’s not how family works.”

To her surprise, he lets out an entirely humourless chuckle. “If that is what you believe, this family might not be the right one for you.”

Jane has no idea what he means by it, but she knows there is a lot of history she isn’t aware of. She has never been good at reading body language, but the rigidness of his posture speaks volumes about how ready he is to explain.

She dismisses it, storing it to ponder over later.

“Do you hate me?” she says finally, careful to keep her voice even.

Loki’s eyes narrow. “Why do you ask?”

Jane’s chest feels very tight. “Because I need to know.”

“And are my actions not enough of an answer for you?” he says, taking a few predatory steps closer. “Are you not satisfied with what you saw for yourself? Is it not clear enough?”

“No,” Jane replies, surprising herself with how calm she sounds. “You seem to think everyone has set opinions about you … and that those opinions are always the worst possible.” She shakes her head. “I’m not like that. I’m a scientist, I don’t base my worldview on presumptions. I want to hear it from you.”

He seems surprised by her words, one dark brow rising, thin lips curling ever so slightly. “How very perceptive, Dr Foster.”

“Not perceptive,” she corrects, “prudent. I don’t like surprises, and the moment you assume something without proof, you’re definitely in for one. I don’t know _why_ you assume everyone thinks the worst of you, but I know I refuse to do that. So … do you hate me?”

He laughs, softly, mirthlessly. “In truth, Dr Foster … I do not.”

She lets out a breath she didn’t even know she was holding. This is … good, she supposes. “But you don’t like me either.”

“Not necessarily,” he says. “I find your relentless pursuit of knowledge, even in the face of opposition, to be most admirable.”

“ _But_ …”

“What makes you so convinced there is a _but_?”

“There’s always a _but_.”

His lips curve into a terrible, wolfish grin. “Are you not a great advocate against presumptions?”

“Don’t twist my words,” she warns, but he just smiles wider.

“Oh, but that is what I do best … is it not?” He cocks his head. “The Silvertongue, the Liesmith, the Serpent Prince … I have made an art of lies and a craft of half-truths.”

She feels heat rise in her before she realizes what he is doing. Then, she smiles. “Goading me into accepting the narrative you’ve pushed yourself and the rest of the world into won’t make me suddenly forget the question I asked.”

He hums thoughtfully. “You are clever, Dr Foster. Cleverer, perhaps, than what I have originally given you credit for.”

“I just want to know how you see me,” she says, not managing to keep a note of exasperation out of her voice entirely. “Is that such a great secret?”

“Do you really want to know?” he asks, and for once, it’s not mocking or snarky. His voice is flat and cold, hiding a shimmering well of emotion beneath.

“Yes.”

He smiles that terrible wolfish grin. “Very well. I … I am curious.”

She curves a brow. “Curious?”

“Yes … curious.” His eyes are burning with emerald fire. “What is it about you, a mortal woman whose lifespan is but a fraction of his own, that has induced my brother to grant you more of his regard and respect in three short days than he has granted me in a thousand years? I fought by his side, I bled for him, weathered the worst his temper and soothed his injured pride, I endured his scorn and his slights, I lived in his shadow and survived off the scraps he deigned leave me, and you just _come_ and in pitiful three days succeed where I have failed again and again for centuries … you … how?!” His voice, tightly controlled at first, slowly becomes louder and frantic, with a creeping edge of desperation. His shoulders are shaking with the sheer force of it.

Jane feels her throat go arid. “I …” she closes her eyes. “I have to go. You … you’ve given me a lot to think about.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” he sneers.

She jumps away from the couch, and speeds away, towards the nearest door. Before she is to make the turn, however, something nags at her, and she turns. Loki is standing in the middle of the living room, eyes fixed on the skyline outside. The sight, for some reason, strikes her as incredibly lonely.

“For what it’s worth,” she says, “I am glad you don’t hate me. And I don’t think I hate you either.” Before she has the chance to see his reaction, she runs away.


	22. XXII - The Avengers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PLOT TIME!!!
> 
> Or; the author tries to make sense of all the conflicting information in the MCU's lore while simultaneously ignoring the Russo Brothers' boner for the big T.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh! I didn't miss a Wednesday, isn't that amazing!!!  
> Also, this is one of my favourite chapters, so I'm really excited to share it with you guys!!!

**XXII**

**The Avengers**

Tony feels underdressed.

That is ridiculous, of course—he is _Tony Stark_ , the man who once wore a three day-old sweatshirt to a board meeting, and an _Armani_ suit to a diner at three AM. But for this occasion, just this one … he feels like a fish out of the water.

The faces of the people around him, humans and Asgardians alike, are all solemn.

Rogers clears his throat. “So … we’ve gathered here today—”

“Jeez, Cap,” Tony snorts in an attempt to ease his anxiety, “this isn’t a wedding.”

Rogers glares at him. “We’ve gathered here today to discuss the threat of Thanos, and our response to it.”

“Eloquent,” Natasha mutters with a smile.

“I think we’re all in agreement that S.H.I.E.L.D. won’t be of help in this,” Bruce says. “Considering that … well. The whole mess with HYDRA weapons and scientists?”

“The what?” Zero-zero-seven says, frowning. “I’m confused.”

Tony sighs. “S.H.I.E.L.D. made a deal with HYDRA’s scientists after the end of the war. Their expertise in exchange for their freedom.”

“And they’ve used the Tesseract to make weapons,” Rogers says darkly. “Don’t let that one slip your mind.”

“Oh,” Zero-zero-seven huffs. “Well, that’s messed up.”

“Okay,” Tony says. “But Fury—he got one thing right.” He takes a deep breath. “We, the Earth … we need protection.”

“The Avengers Initiative,” Natasha mutters quietly, and Tony nods.

“Look at us,” he implores, waving a hand to encompass everyone in the room. “We just saved the Earth from Thanos without the loss of single life!”

Loki squirms uncomfortably in his seat, eyes pointed stubbornly forward. Tony winces.

“That,” he says resolutely, “is not your fault. None of it is.”

His platitudes seem to fall on deaf ears as Loki wets his lips before speaking in a hoarse voice, gaze darting from one person to the other, fixing on none. “How many?”

Tony doesn’t miss the subtle way Queen Frigga puts her hand on his forearm. “It may be better if …”

“No,” he snaps. Then he adds, softer. “I need to know. Please.”

No-one speaks. The tension is so thick it can be cut with a knife. Finally, deciding he can’t bear it anymore, Tony speaks. “Eighty. It was eighty.”

A shadow passes over Loki’s face, and he bows his head, expression unreadable. “Thank you.”

“But most of them went down with the PEGASUS facility,” a voice speaks in reassurance, and Tony watches in disbelief as Natasha of all people offers Loki a smile. He had never thought … well. Natasha _is_ a spy, and perhaps she knows a thing or two about guilt.

“Your attempts are appreciated, Agent Romanoff,” Loki says softly. “Please continue, Tony.”

“Right … erm.” The feeling of anxiety that has restlessly haunted him so far increases tenfold. “The Avengers. A group of enhanced individuals that would theoretically protect the Earth from all external threats.” He smiles grimly. “We’ve learned, in these past few days, that those threats are closer and more dangerous than we could have possibly imagined. It’s sheer _luck_ that we didn’t have to fight an army of aliens, for fuck’s sake!”

Rogers makes a small, distressed noise.

“If we did …” Tony continues in spite of it, “maybe we would’ve won, I guess Lokes would’ve fought tooth and nail to assure us that victory … maybe we wouldn’t have. I am glad we never have to find out.

“But, if this taught us anything, it’s that the Earth needs protection. And who better than us? The Avengers would be tethered to no government, to no agency. Mountains of proper paperwork and protocols wouldn’t swamp us and prevent us from doing what needs to be done. With people like Cap here,” he nods his head in Rogers’s direction, and Rogers nods back, lips cutting a sharp line over his face, “to sway the public opinion in our favour and me to do the funding … we’d be unstoppable.”

“Yes …” Barton says, surprising everyone. “I mean … we have, amongst ourselves, the most unique and diverse combination of skillsets in the world. We’d have an answer to every crisis.”

“The world is changing …” Rogers says quietly. “It has changed so much since my time, but now … we can’t go on the same way.”

There are silent voices of agreement from all around the room.

“So …” Tony says, slinking back into his armchair, “I say we make the Avengers happen.”

There’s a hurricane of arguments, agreements and protests both, until Rogers jumps to his feet and silences everyone with a righteous look. Tony is almost jealous—almost, but not quite.

Once silence falls, Rogers speaks, his voice clipped and resolute, and in that moment it strikes Tony like it never did before—this man was in the army. It may seem strange, that it had never occurred to him before, this is Captain America, after all, but … He can hardly claim to know Rogers _well_ , but he has always gotten the impression that the man is much less … obedient? Patriotic? A true soldier? Everything that Captain America is meant to be, really, than he likes to pretend.

But it seems he has picked up a few tricks.

“I agree with Stark,” Rogers says, the words bearing weight disproportionate to their content. “The Earth needs a response team.”

“We’re a bit beyond a response team now,” Bruce notes. “At this point, with the things we know,” a nod in Reindeer Games’s direction, “we need to go on the offensive. We can’t just _wait_ here and fight whatever Thanos sends at us when the true battle might as well be fought somewhere else.”

“You have two Infinity Stones here,” Loki says. “That alone would draw him.”

Tony frowns. “Okay, yeah, what’s even the deal with Thanos? You lot,” he says, pointing at the Asgardian party, “seem to know something, _we_ have no idea.”

The skin around the queen’s eyes tightens minutely, before she speaks. “Thanos the Mad Titan was, up until a few days ago, believed to be but a legend. We know very little, really. He is said to be the last of the Titans, an ancient and powerful race thrived on their small and isolated world in a distant corner of the universe before their ultimate extinction. They call him Death’s Lover, for he apparently believes himself to be in love with Death herself, and seeks to worm his way into her affections.”

“Okay, how does someone make death fall in love with them?” Zero-zero-seven speaks up. “Frankly, that sounds like some fucked-up metaphor.”

“I suppose that it is a metaphor, to an extent,” the queen says. “You see, the Titan cannot die—it is what has driven him mad. As such, he became obsessed with Death. He believes, should she return his love, she will allow him into her domain.”

“Lord,” Natasha mutters. “I take it suicide didn’t work out for the guy?”

“Apparently not,” Tony mutters. “Okay, but how exactly does one make death fall in love with them?”

The queen smiles grimly. “Slaughter. Mass slaughter, Lord Stark. Countless lives ended, as gifts for his Lady Love. Thanos alone is responsible for eradicating hundreds of species throughout the galaxy. The Yvani, the Quioni, the—”

“The Zehoberei,” Loki whispers, almost too quietly to be audible.

Frigga and Thor frown. “The Zehoberei went extinct after a natural disaster struck their homeworld,” Thor says.

Loki lets out a mirthless chuckle. “So we were led to believe.”

“What do you mean, dearest?” Frigga asks, brow furrowed in concern.

Loki takes a deep breath. “Thanos has many forces at his disposal. The bulk of his armies is made up of Chitauri and Outriders, but they are but mindless drones, cannon fodder. The lieutenants, on the other hand …” he shivers. “There is the Black Order, a group of individuals dedicated to his cause. He …”

Loki’s eyes close, his voice dropping. “He wanted me to join them, at first.”

His lips twist into a dark smile. “I refused. But that is beside the point. His most loyal underlings are his daughters. I know very little of them, and what I do know is mostly pieced together from chunks of information I have learned here and there.

“The one who holds his favour is a young Zehoberei woman called Gamora. She was … kinder, than the rest. Certainly kinder than her sister. If I had to make assumptions, I would say that being the favourite has allowed her to retain a fraction of her humanity.

“On one occasion, while she was mending me enough to continue Thanos’s good work on the morrow, I asked if she would do me a favour and slit my throat.”

His shoulders hunch, raven hair falling over his face. “She told me her story instead. Thanos arrived to her world when she was but a child and slaughtered half the population. He took her, raised her, made her into a weapon she is today. The other half of the Zehoberei died out eventually, out of starvation or infighting or … I know not what else.”

He lifts his head then, green eyes glistening in the light. “So, yes, the Zehoberei as well.”

Tony stares at him, transfixed, until the queen sweeps into his field of vision and draws Loki into an embrace. She is muttering something, words of comfort in a language not of this world.

Tony feels _sick_. _This_ is what they’re dealing with? A madman who kills without a second thought, not for profit or for revenge, but because he … what? Fancies himself in love with death?

The gazes at the troubled faces of the people around him reveal that their minds are racing in similar directions.

“How are we supposed to fight _that_ ,” someone, Tony doesn’t know who, whispers.

Queen Frigga speaks in a frigid voice. “Asgard shan’t take this standing, I assure you. Once we return, we will rally the forces of the Nine, and strike at him. And there will be no mercy.” In that moment, Tony can easily imagine her carving a faceless horror into a thousand little pieces, a mad grin to rival her younger son’s dancing about her lips.

He should be disturbed by the image. He is not.

“Why is he after the shiny rocks, though?” Barton asks.

“The Infinity Stones,” Loki recites dully. “Space, Soul, Reality, Time, Power and Mind.” He frowns. “There is a relic in Asgard’s Vault, capable of taming the power of all six, is there not, Mother?”

“Yes,” Queen Frigga says. She sweeps her gaze across the room. “The Infinity Gauntlet. The Dwarves of Nidavellir forged two, yet we possess only one. The other was believed to be lost, but now I fear …”

“That he has it,” Rogers says, his throat bobbing.

“Yes,” Frigga says. “Alone, the Stones are the most powerful items in the Universe. Together … together, they are unstoppable. There is nothing that cannot be achieved with all six.”

“Including mass slaughter, I presume,” Natasha sighs.

“Indeed,” Loki answers. “With only a snap of his fingers.”

“Lord,” Tony says. “This is so fucked up.”

“You said it,” Dr Foster huffs.

“Still,” Bruce says. “We’ve got two out of six here, right?”

Tony nods. “I’m keeping them in my safe until we figure out what to do with them. Let me guess, there’s some sort of catch, isn’t there? They can’t be destroyed?”

“No,” Thor says. “They cannot.”

“We mustn’t let him get them all,” Natasha says. “That’s the first order of business. The second … what do we do if we can’t kill him?”

Loki frowns. “What if we could?” he asks softly. “If he can wipe out half the universe out of existence with all six, who’s to say we cannot wipe _him_ out? As you said, Tony, we already possess two.”

Rogers squirms uncomfortably in his chair. “That is … probably very wrong and breaks hundreds of laws, but frankly …” he takes a deep breath. “I don’t care. This guy is a bastard, and he deserves to be destroyed.”

“I am glad you agree,” Natasha says. She smiles. “Would you look at that? The Avengers haven’t been founded for quarter of an hour, and already we are planning murder.”

Despite everything, Tony smiles. “Yeah. Man, we’re good.”

“So,” Barton says, “We’ve got Space and Mind, correct?” He frowns. “Does anyone have a whiteboard, or something?”

“Really, Barton?” Tony says. “You insult me. J?”

_“Right away, sir.”_

A blue glow lights up and forms a holographic board for Barton to write on. The archer snorts. “Arsehole.”

“Love you, too,” Tony says, smiling.

“So,” Barton continues, “we’ve got Space and Mind.”

He writes on the board then, in capital letters, _SPACE_ and _MIND_. Underneath, in smaller script, he scribbles _the Tesseract_ and _the sceptre._

Next to that, he lists the others. _TIME, REALITY, SOUL, POWER._

“Okay,” he says.

“They have colours, in case you care,” Loki says, smiling faintly.

Tony turns to him. “You mean to tell me,” he says incredulously, “that the fancy rocks of creation are _colour-coded_?”

“Verily.”

“Okay, cool,” Barton says. “So, the two we have are blue, right?”

“Space is blue,” the queen says. “Mind is yellow, I believe. The gem within the sceptre mitigates the colour.”

Barton nods, and switches the black of the letters to their designated colours. Good to know that Earth’s Mightiest heroes are all secretly five years old. “The rest?”

“Reality is red, Time is green,” Frigga says, “Power is purple and Soul orange.”

“And the Infinity Gauntlet?”

“A big golden glove,” Thor says, smiling faintly.

Barton takes to the task with vigour, and soon, the inscription _THE INFINITY GAUNTLET_ is added to the board in blazing gold letters. Beneath, he has written _big golden glove_ , and _the Space Vikings have it._

If any of the Space Vikings are offended by the name, they don’t show it.

“Okay,” Rogers says, “so, do you know anything about where the others are?”

The queen shakes her head. “We only knew of the Tesseract. My husband concealed it here many years ago.”

“Over a thousand,” Natasha says, remembering.

“Yes,” the queen says. “In the last days of Asgard-Jötunheim War. As for all the rest …” she shrugs. “They have changed many hands since the dawn of time, but now, they are lost. Or so we were led to believe.” She turns to her younger son. “Do you know, sweet one, if Thanos possesses any other?”

“Not that I know of,” Loki says, shaking his head.

“I don’t like how bold his strategy was,” Bruce says. “I mean … he gave away one Stone hoping it would get him a second one. He lost both of them instead.”

Natasha shrugs. “Maybe it’s a sign of desperation. He didn’t know what else to do, how to get more Stones, so he took a risk, and he lost.”

Loki shrugs. “Possibly.”

“Okay,” Dr Foster says, “but what about the rest? The Tesseract was only a legend for us, right? It would make sense that the others are legends on Asgard.”

Thor sighs. “I do not know. I have not given much care to independent study in my youth.”

Loki snorts. “In your youth? Do not tell me that has changed!” His lip curls fondly. “Surely my dearest brother has not become a permanent fixture in the Royal Library in my absence?”

“Nay, Loki, no-one has stolen that honour from you, and I daresay no-one ever shall,” Thor replies pleasantly. “But I shan’t deny I have taken some interest in tomes and knowledge.”

“Not my brother, for certain!” Loki says, the slight smile broadening into a full grin.

And then his eyes widen, and his shoulders droop, the look of shock at his face mirroring Thor’s. As one, they look away, Loki twisting his hands in his lap and Thor fiddling with the leather cord of his hammer.

Ah. Family drama.

“Well,” the queen says, attempting some seriousness, but her eyes are darting from one of her children to another, wild hope dancing in her blue irises. “I shall think on it. In any case, we are not in a position to do anything more substantial until we return to Asgard and have access to the Archives and the Library.”

Loki nods in acquiescence, eyes still distant.

“In the meanwhile,” the queen says, “I do not think it wise to keep two Infinity Stones so close together.”

“I know Fury won’t be very happy with you taking the Tesseract,” Tony says. “But you need it to go home, right?”

“Correct,” the queen sighs. “And it will be most helpful in repairing the Bifröst.”

“Well, I think they’ll be gladder to be rid of you than they will crave the Tesseract, so I’d say you’re fine on that. You could leave the sceptre here,” Tony offers. “With me. We don’t tell S.H.I.E.L.D. or Fury that it’s staying. Let them believe it’s away, with you, and you can use interstellar politics and threat of war to make sure they let you have both.” He grins. “Like you did on the Helicarrier.”

“Perhaps,” the queen agrees.

“But you don’t trust us to keep it safe,” Natasha says, getting, as always, to the crux of the problem.

“Not you. I trust you are all good people, and it was an honour to fight by your side,” Frigga answers. “Your technology, perhaps. Should Mad Titan come and seize it … Asgard won’t be able to send aid until the Bifröst is repaired.”

“But … he can’t,” Loki says, frowning. “He is exiled from the Nine; he needed the Tesseract to send me.” He looks up. “Without it, he cannot come to Midgard.”

Steve frowns. “But if the Tesseract is on Asgard … won’t he be able to come _there_?”

Loki shakes his head. “Not unless he can influence someone else to open the portal for him.” His eyes find Dr Selvig, a strange gleam in them. “We … I … influenced you, the last time.”

Selvig goes very, very still, holding Loki’s gaze. It’s the Asgardian who gives up first, bowing his head. Tony doesn’t think he’s breathing.

“I see,” Selvig says, words muffled. “Excuse me, I … I need some air.” With that, he walks out, to the balcony.

“Right …” Barton says, “that was awkward. But we need to—”

“Can’t you stop for one damned moment,” Dr Foster hisses. “Erik’s been through a—”

“I _get it_ ,” Barton snaps. “ _Trust me_ , I do. But I’m a spy. We can compartmentalize, and right now, we seriously _should._ ”

“Well, I’m no damned spy,” Foster growls, and rises to her feet. “I’ll go check up on Erik.”

No-one stops her as she goes after the doctor. Not even Barton continues.

Steve, of all people, gathers himself first, and talks. It reminds Tony of his army-origins again. Compartmentalization. Right. “So, if we’ve concluded that Thanos can’t arrive here yet …”

“He has some plans to break the magic that keeps him from Yggdrasill,” Loki says dully, as the queen rubs soothing circles in his back. “But I am not familiar with them.”

“Amazing,” Natasha mutters. “Okay, so we’ve got the Tesseract on Asgard, with you lot, and the sceptre here, with Stark’s stuff to guard it.” She shrugs. “Seems fine to me. And besides, the sooner you can repair your bridge, the better.”

There is a nod of acquiescence again.

“Well, then,” Tony says, rising to his feet. He has never been able to stand in one place for long. “You godly types—rake your memories for possible locations of the Stones. _I_ am going to go design something to keep that sceptre safe.”

No-one objects, all staring at Barton’s holographic board with empty gazes.


	23. XXIII - Bonding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FLUFF  
> FLUFF  
> FLUFF
> 
> And only a day late!!!

**XXIII**

**Bonding**

“Erik!”

Jane finds him at the terrace, overlooking the city, gaze darting towards the platform where he had nearly opened the portal. Yesterday.

“Janie,” he says, softly.

Jane stops in her tracks. As usual, she did not think this trough, and has no idea what to say now. Fortunately, she doesn’t have to.

“Did you come to tell me not to be angry?” Erik huffs, eyes fixed somewhere faraway. “That I’m wrong to hate him? That I’m being petty?”

“I would never do that,” Jane says, fiddling with the edge of her sleeve. “No-one here would.”

“Wouldn’t they?” Erik questions, knuckles whitening on the railing. “It sure as hell hasn’t taken them long to start fawning over that bastard.”

“That’s not what—”

“Isn’t it?” Out of a sudden, he turns, lip twisted in disdain. “Stark’s already taken him under his wing. I watched Banner make him tea. Even fucking _Barton—_ ” He clenches his jaw. “Everyone.”

“I’m not here to tell you what you should or shouldn’t feel,” Jane says, as placatingly as she can, raising her arms. “Only you can decide that. I just came here to check up on you. To see if you’re okay.”

He lets out a deranged laugh. “ _Okay?!_ How could I possibly be okay?!” He shakes his head. “Just go. I’m sure you still need to _check up_ on _him_ , and make sure that admitting what a _monster_ he is hasn’t hurt _him_ too much.”

“Erik—”

“Just go,” he says. “I need to be alone. Please.”

* * *

When she returns to the sitting room, head bowed in defeat, she finds everyone but Stark still there, eyes glazed over in misery as they stare at the list Agent Barton has made. She feels so useless.

There is nothing for her here, not right now. She leaves.

* * *

Jane spends the rest of the day in Thor’s company. She teaches him how to make waffles in Stark’s brand new, never used, state-of-the-art waffle machine and they eat them for lunch.

He takes her flying again, and this time, she wisely has Darcy put her hair into two tight plaits that fall down her shoulders beforehand. When Thor sees them, he smiles goofily and presses a kiss to her brow.

They wander through the city, Thor disguised in civilian clothes, hair bound into a loose ponytail, trying out whatever coffee shop or restaurant strikes their fancy.

She tells him about her work, and he just shakes his head, telling her how clever she is to understand all that. He tells her about his secret passion for art and sketching, and she makes him promise to show her his work when she arrives on Asgard.

They gossip like teenage girls, slowly bridging the difference between their two worlds with _understanding_.

Jane tells him of that one time she got blackout drunk on a party as a freshman and had to be dragged back home by her best friend, how she once stayed up for three days straight studying for an exam, only to miss it because she’d fallen asleep, how her father forbade her from playing outside once, but she disobeyed, and her plans of it ever going unnoticed went up in flames when she scraped her knee on the hard pavement, so she decided that the only solution to this predicament was running away from home.

Thor weaves tales of valour and magic and mischief, painting Asgard in her head with just his words. He portrays the people she’d only met briefly—his mother, and Loki, and Sif, and Fandral, and Volstagg, and Hogun—and those she never knew. There’s his father, the great King Odin, the mysterious Gatekeeper Heimdall, the no-nonsense Chief Healer, the Lady Eir, the frightening Lord Ragnar, Odin’s oldest friend and the the Head of the King’s Council, the valiant General Tyr. There are his tutors and teachers, and the three cousins on his mother’s side of the family. There are enemies felled and allies made and battles won.

She has never felt this close to him before.

It is late in the night when they return to Stark Tower, and Thor kisses her hand before retreating to his room, letting some of his princely manners seep through. She thinks she might die of happiness.

* * *

Sleeping … proves to be hard. The enjoyment of the day spent with Thor has managed to keep the sour memories of the morning’s events at bay, but now that he is gone, they haunt her like wraiths. With nothing better to do, she slips out of the confines of her rooms.

She finds Loki pouring over some book. It’s not _Harry Potter_ , which was her first assumption, but some sort of textbook with pictures to better help explain the topic littered all over the pages. The margins are full of Stark’s messy scrawl in different colours of ink.

“Hi,” she says.

He raises his shadowed gaze to her, and inclines his head slightly. “Dr Foster.”

“What?” she says, nodding towards the book. “Couldn’t sleep?”

He grins like a predator. “No rest for the wicked, I suppose.”

“We need to talk.”

One dark brow shoots up towards his hairline. “Again?” He cocks his head. “Have you come here to tell me that, considering the new developments, you are now firmly in the ‘hating me’ territory? No need.”

Jane lets out a frustrated sound. “Really? Are you still … dammit! Stop with this stupid ‘expecting the worst’ thing you’ve got there, okay? You don’t _know_ how I feel, so I’d appreciate if you didn’t try to push anything on me! Lord!”

He doesn’t give away any reaction to her tirade, but, oh, well, she hadn’t been expecting any.

“Look … what I meant to do was to … apologize.”

His emerald eyes widen, his brow furrows in puzzlement. “I beg your pardon?”

Jane shakes her head. “Why do you have to make everything so difficult … I swear. Look,” she forces her chin up, and meets that burning green gaze. “I’m sorry. We didn’t … no-one told us about the—the _torture_ part, okay?” He stiffens, startled expression melting into a cool, detached mask, all emotion washed away. “If I’ve said anything to … offend you, or something, I’m sorry.”

He frowns, letting some of his confusion seep through. “Why?”

Jane startles. “What do you mean _why_? Why am I apologizing? Because if I’ve made a mistake—”

“No, no,” he shakes his head, “not that. I …” He frowns. “I would imagine you would be … pleased.”

Jane can do nothing but stare.

“You …” she splutters after too long, “you … oh, _Lord._ What … I’m not a fucking _sadist_! To even think that I … oh, Lord.”

His lips twist into a grim smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “There is nothing wrong with a bit of shadenfreude.”

Jane’s jaw drops. “Shaden— _shadenfreude?!_ ” she growls. “Shadenfreude is for when the kid who made fun of you in school gets a bad grade, not—not _this_.” She waves her hand wildly to accompany all of the room. “ _This_ … this would be sadism. Why …” She feels her chest heaving with too-shallow breaths. “Why are you _like this_? What has happened to you in that long life of yours that made you so … so … _like this_?”

The grim smile widens into a truly terrifying visage. “Experience.”

Jane feels so _wrong_.

In the year between Thor’s leaving and the Skype call that brought her here, she’s given Loki much thought—or as much as she could, seeing as her entire existence was engulfed in her research.

She imagined him as … as this faceless figure, a larger than life, cartoonish villain, twirling his pointed moustache as he cackles madly at the misery and destruction he leaves in his wake. She’d imagined a monstrous devil-child, rotten from birth, ravaging Asgard as unapologetically as he’d ravaged Puente Antiguo.

Not … not _this_.

Not this self-destructive _child_ , so very perceptive yet somehow so blind at the same time, with a wit sharp enough to cut through glass, and a well of anger and hurt and desperation hidden so well behind a wicked façade.

She tries to somehow connect the quiet, clever, mischievous younger brother from Thor’s tales with this. She isn’t sure she can.

An idea comes to her, then, and she crosses her fingers in hope. “You know,” she says, fighting to keep her voice calm, “Thor told me some stories from his childhood today.”

Loki goes very, very still.

“One that stuck with me most is the one where one of your friends … Fandral, I believe, got you drunk, so you enchanted his hair a really ugly shade of green the next morning.” She smiles. “Now, he was willing to tell me the story of the first and only time _you_ were drunk, but not one where _he_ was. I was wondering if you’d be willing to do that for me.”

“He told you that,” Loki says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That tremendous _oaf._ ” He raises his head, and smiles one of his wicked grins, though not quite as sharp as Jane knows they can be. And the glimmer in his eyes is one of mischief, not cruelty. “Very well, Jane Foster. I shall indulge you.”

“Awesome,” she says, and plops down on the couch, a healthy distance away from where he carefully marks the page in his book and sets it down on the coffee table.

“Ah … ‘twas on the last day of the Yuletide celebration, some three or four hundred years ago,” he begins, and Jane has to keep herself from startling at the sheer number of years he says _so casually_. It’s easy to forget, sometimes, how old they are. How long they live. “Thor was not of age yet, though he would be in half a century or so. _How_ he got himself into such a state, I know not. I imagine the serfs would not deny him his excess of mead on that day. Mayhap they though he would possess a modicum of self-control.” His soft snort is enough to tell her what _he_ thinks of the idea. “Whatever be the reason, as the celebration drew on longer and longer, Thor retained less and less of his wits, which is dreadful indeed, considering how little he has in the first place.”

“Oi!” Jane says playfully. “That’s my boyfriend you’re insulting.”

Loki just curves a brow. “I am— _was_ his brother. Teasing him is my sworn duty.” He smiles, and continues. “Asgardian feasts are tedious affairs, with too much food and drink, so much noise one can scarcely hear one’s own thoughts over it, and an absolute lack of decorum.”

“Not a fan, I gather,” she jokes, but is met only with a puzzled frown.

“Fan?”

She chuckles. “Short for fanatic. Lover, let’s say.”

“Ah,” he nods. “Then, no, not a fan at all. Regardless of my own feelings towards feasts, Thor has ever enjoyed them with an ardour paralleled only by his love of battle and hunting.” He hums thoughtfully. “Well, perhaps he merely basks in the attention everyone always piles upon him when he begins his tales of adventure. This time, however, there was no storytelling. Rather, Sif, already deep in her own cups, though not nearly as much as Thor, challenged him to show off his mastery of court dancing on one of the tables.” He makes a face. “He never did know how to dance. And he cannot refuse a challenge, no matter how ridiculous, when completely sober, so you understand, Dr Foster, that in intoxicated state, he is no different.”

“Oh, my,” Jane huffs, trying to imagine a teenage Thor drunkenly dancing on a table full of food, as faceless figures in armour cheer and clap, equally drunkenly. She can’t help a quick laugh that escapes her.

“Indeed,” Loki says drily. “Well, the Lady Sif and the Warriors Three, whom you have had the pleasure of meeting, I believe,” his lips curl into an ugly sneer, “joined him soon after. The table cracked under their combined weight, and they all went down with it.” He chuckles. “Sif’s parents were there, and very cross with her. A shame she was too drunk to hear the full tirade Lord Ulf, her father, subjected her to afterwards, when he thought no-one could hear.”

“And your parents?”

“My mother was away, visiting her sister in Vanaheim,” he says. “The All-Father chose to ignore the whole thing.”

Jane does not miss the difference in the ways he refers to the queen and the king. It occurs to her, then, that she still doesn’t know much about what happened during those three days that Thor was on Earth. Only that he was banished, and that his brother had somehow seized the throne and forbidden his return. And then the Destroyer appeared.

She wants to ask, wants to know, but doesn’t dare ruin this shaky camaderie they’d achieved.

“That would be the first, but certainly not the last time,” Loki finishes, and Jane smiles, leaning forward.

“That was amazing. Now, what about the most embarrassing moment of his entire life?”

Loki, visibly relaxed, cocks his head. “A small skirmish in Álfheim,” he says, “mere months after his coming-of-age ceremony, when he had received that brutish hammer of his. We had all spent those long months listening him dabble on and on about its properties, until all of the Royal Household could recite its entire history. The only time I’ve _ever_ witnessed Thor actually give himself over to study.”

“He does love that hammer,” Jane agreed, remembering how he’d muttered _hammer_ over and over again when she’d struck him with his car—for the first time.

“An understatement if there ever was one,” Loki said dryly. “We were sent to quell a small rebellion of Álvar peasants who had risen up against Álfheim’s provisional government and Asgard’s ascendancy. The peasants alone would not have been any threat to the Álvar forces, but they had secured the help of some two dozen highly trained mercenaries, and the All-Father never did allow his vassals great military power.” He shrugged. “It’s interrealm politics. Well, we had the rebels nearly beaten, when Thor bellowed across the field of battle, _‘My Brother! My friends! Behold!’_ And then he swung his mighty hammer in the air, ready to smash in the skull of a rogue rebel, but he was still inexperienced with such a weapon so when the time to deliver the deadly strike came, instead of a rebel’s head, Mjölnir smashed _Thor’s_ _nose_ instead.”

“Oh, Lord,” Jane wheezes, and bursts into giggles. “Oh, I am _so_ going to use this against him at some point. _Remember that one time you broke your nose with Mjölnir?_ ”

He chuckles, a soft, cheerful sound that she never thought she’d hear from him. It tugs at the strings of her heart in a way she can’t understand.

“You should talk to him, you know,” she says, as gently as she can manage. “Thor. He loves you, and he misses you. And it’s clear you love and miss him.”

He stiffens, sending a glare in her direction, but she steels herself and holds it with all the ferocity she can dredge up. “Just … think about it.”

He inclines his head. “Perhaps I shall.”

She nods. It’s better than nothing.

Maybe there’s hope for this family yet.


	24. XXIV - World Security Council

**XXIV**

**World Security Council**

Frigga is pouring over her memory, seeking any and every last straw she can grasp on, and grows more and more frustrated by the second. She has spent so much time in the Royal Library, pouring over histories and legends, yet now, when it matters most of all, she is useless.

Infinity Stones, Infinity Stones, Infinity Stones.

She has already written out several sheets of paper with ideas, none very promising, to explore once she is returned to Asgard, when Director Fury of all people swoops into Stark’s library, dark leather coat billowing behind him.

“Your Majesty,” he says in his drawling voice. Frigga notes that the skin behind and around his eyepatch is slightly scarred. Huh. She has never noticed that before.

“Director,” she says, automatically correcting her slumped posture and banishing her notes into a pocket dimension. “How may I help you?”

The director crosses his arms over his chest, face unreadable as he leans against the wall. “I’ve got some people who want to talk to you,” he says.

Not unexpected. It is the second day since they closed the portal, and she is frankly surprised it has taken Midgard’s authorities this long.

“Oh?” She smiles pleasantly. “And who might they be?”

Fury cocks his head. “The World Security Council.”

She nods. “Aye, so I’ve heard. I deduce from the rather … _descriptive_ name that they would be the central authority on Midgard these days?”

“Not quite,” Fury says, dragging a hand over his face. He looks exhausted, she notes. “They are a group of powerful politicians from all over the globe, and function as oversight to S.H.I.E.L.D.”

She smirks, the expression of a bird of prey closing in on its unsuspecting dinner. “And you aren’t very fond of this … _‘oversight’_ , are you?”

He snorts. “A bunch of stuffy politicians looking to fill their own coffers? No, not really. They prevent me from doing my job more than they protect anyone.”

Frigga’s smile doesn’t waver. “Yet without oversight … Norns only know what your S.H.I.E.L.D. could do to your people.”

“Lord only knows what the Council does to our people,” Fury mutters. “Well, they’re waiting for us on the Helicarrier.”

“I see,” Frigga says. “And I imagine it’s not a matter of choice on my part?”

Not that she would miss out on it, even if she could. Thanos is coming, and it would do well to be better acquainted with Midgard’s defences. If there is anything these past few days made clear, it’s that Asgard has left this world alone for far too long.

“Not really,” Fury says, chuckling.

“Very well,” Frigga decides, and smooths out the creases in her gown as she rises to her feet. “Take me then, director.”

The man nods again, and she is seized by a sudden desire to cackle like an adolescent girl. Fury is wearing courtesy like ill-fitted armour, like it is chafing uncomfortably against his skin and forming blisters. He is, Frigga decides, entirely unaccustomed to being in the presence of those of greater power than him—or perhaps only those he cannot talk back to. He did not seem too disinclined to gossip about the World Security Council, after all.

The moment they leave the confines of the library, they are confronted by Thor, carrying a stack of books taller than his head.

“Dearest?” Frigga says, skimming the titles. Midgardian stories, mostly.

“Hello, Mother,” Thor says from behind the stack.

She curves a brow. “Have you taken up reading, then?”

Thor lets out a thunderous laugh, and Frigga can’t help the slight smile that curves her lips. He has such a large heart, and no matter how many times it was broken only in recent years, he has never lost his inherent earnestness and kindness.

“I wish, Mother,” he says, “these are for Loki.”

Frigga’s heart skips a beat. “Oh?”

“Aye. He’s asked of me to bring them.”

“He has … asked?”

Recognizing the note in her voice, Thor peeks out from behind the books. His azure eyes are wide and joyful. “Yes. He has.”

Frigga remembers that moment yesterday, when, if only for a moment, she could have pretended nothing has ever gone wrong, and they were family again.

Something clots in her throat, and she feels like she might choke on it.

Thor, recognizing her predicament, just smiles.

* * *

Fury takes her to another flying contraption, the _Quinjet_ , she has heard the mortals call it, and to the Helicarrier. Even as she tries to focus on her oncoming task, her thoughts keep darting to her brief encounter with Thor.

Loki had talked to him. Sought him out, and asked something of him. Willingly, voluntarily. Her hearts weeps with joy at the thought. And she remembers her boys yesterday, teasing and laughing together, as if, just for a moment, the chasm between them had closed.

Fury leads her into a darkened room, and stands with her in the centre of it. All around them, images of faceless people arise.

Frigga can almost scoff at their dramatics. Do they think hiding their faces will somehow _protect_ them should Asgard choose to attack?

“Queen Frigga of Asgard,” one of the voices says, slightly distorted but still unmistakeably female. “All-Mother.” The voice pauses. “It’s an interesting title.”

Frigga smiles, pouring some of her viciousness into it. They seek to intimidate her, these _mortals_ , with their clandestine operations. Ha! As if she hasn’t seen them stumble from ancient civilizations to _this_ , witnessed it with her own two eyes.

“Indeed,” she says. “It has quite a weight to it as well, in the universe beyond your world. After all …” she lets her smile turn downright predatory, “the might of Asgard is behind it.”

Some of the faceless shadows shift uncomfortably, and Frigga feels what she hasn’t felt in a long time: the elation of power. She was powerless to limit Thor’s arrogance, to stop Odin’s punishments, to stop Loki’s descend into madness. She was powerless to save her sons, to keep their family together.

But now, in this room …

“The Tesseract,” one of the voices, male this time, interrupts, finally getting to the crux of the matter, “and the sceptre. These … _Infinity Stones._ ”

“Will both be taken to Asgard for safekeeping,” she finishes for the man.

“That is not your decision to make,” someone else says. “After everything your Asgard put this planet through, the Earth deserves some recompense. We will accept the Tesseract and the sceptre.”

The elation within Frigga grows, and she cocks her head, and says in a tone dripping with condescension, “After all the threats Asgard has defended this Realm from, the Earth owes _us_ their eternal gratitude.” She squares her shoulders. “Asgard is the defender and keeper of the peace in the Nine, and Midgard has been under our protection since before your ancestors could walk. It will continue to be so.” _Because who controls the central Realm controls the Nine_ , she doesn’t add. They need not know that, and all _she_ needs is reassurance that Odin will never relinquish Midgard and let them fend for themselves. “If we hadn’t protected you, Midgard would be yet another outpost of the Kree Empire, and your people but slaves to their Kree overlords. Or mayhap it would be a frozen wasteland under the rule of the Jötnar. Or mayhap—”

“All right,” someone interrupts, and Frigga raises an eyebrow pointedly. She doesn’t say anything, though. She has made her point. “That still doesn’t settle this, _Majesty._ ”

She curves her lip disdainfully. “You seek power you cannot understand, nor do you have any means of controlling. You _stole_ the Tesseract from its keeping place, and instead of treating it with the reverence and respect it deserves, you used it to make weapons, and inadvertently, drove the universe’s attention to yourselves.” She snorts. “What do you think would have happened, _oh, wise ones_ , if someone other than Prince Loki was sent through that portal? Someone who actually sought to conquer and rule? This Realm would have fallen before you ever had the chance of deploying those weapons you were so certain would save you. It is arrogance of the highest order, and from a Realm that has no claim to it at that.

“You can only be grateful that I will forgive your accusations, your demands, your slander, in the name of the innocent peoples of this world.” She narrows her eyes. “Should Asgard withdraw our protection …” She leaves the threat hanging.

“ _Prince Loki_ ,” the female voice says, spitting out the title like a slur, “is responsible for the deaths of almost a hundred humans, theft of a valuable artefact, _and_ enthralling several others. This Council demands he be held responsible.”

Imperceptibly, Frigga grits her teeth. “If the humans that have been enthralled are not to be held responsible for their actions, why should the Prince be? He has been coerced into this as much as they have. The moment he was freed from the foreign influence, he joined S.H.I.E.L.D.’s efforts in fending off the threat, and even before that, he struggled against his enthrallers, and made the actual process that much easier.”

“ _Someone_ has to answer,” another one insists, and for the first time, Frigga lets some of her churning rage show on her face.

“So you wish for a _scapegoat_?” she says, low and dangerous, and lets out a mirthless laugh. “And you’ve chosen a Prince of Asgard?” She shakes her head. “Oh, no, ladies and gentlemen, _oh, no_. If you wish to put the blame somewhere I suggest you look into the mirror first. Had you not so _foolishly_ meddled with forces you do not understand, none of this would have happened. Prince Loki is the only reason this Realm still stands.”

“Yes,” someone sneers, “he is also the only reason that Puente Antiguo _does not._ ”

“Oh? No human lives taken, and only a few hundred thousand of your dollars in physical damage,” she snorts. “That is hardly _not standing._ If it means so much to you, I _can_ arrange a recompense.” She picks absentmindedly at her nails, knowing how much it will annoy them. “Would you prefer silver or gold?”

“We’d _prefer_ the sceptre and the Tesseract,” a voice snaps, finally losing control.

“And I thought I had made myself clear on that front.” She raises her gaze from her fingers. “Those relics will be kept where they belong. Out of anyone’s reach, so that they can never be misused again.”

“Except until Asgard decides to use them,” a new female voice growls. “And what when you do?”

“I sincerely doubt that,” Frigga says serenely. “You see, _unlike you_ , Asgard’s Royal Family knows better than to use the Infinity Stones. And, of course, should we decide to use them, we would, once again, _unlike you_ , know what we were dealing with.”

The way their faces are obscured makes it hard to make out their reaction, but she thinks she has heard some muffled indignant spluttering.

“You would leave Earth defenceless,” the first woman growls. “I don’t know how much you know about the human race, but I’ll tell you this—we don’t take well to dependence. We don’t _want_ your protection; we want to be able to protect ourselves!”

“How exactly?” Frigga counters. “How did you plan to do that? Your world is still young—you are but children by galactic standards. Children require protection from their elders, it is the way of the universe.” Her lips curve into an ugly sneer. “You are so very lucky that you are of the Nine. There are laws against waging war upon the technologically deficient, yes, but thousands of civilizations like yours still fall every day, because the larger universe _doesn’t care._ Should Asgard strip our protection, we might as well declare Midgard ripe for the taking! The presence of not one, but _two_ Infinity Stones even more so. And the invading forces will swarm in like flies on spilled honey, they will battle each other for prevalence, and both your world and your people will be _crushed_ in the aftermath.”

She snorts. “Don’t think that the great galactic empires will care much for human lives lost if it means they can get their hands on an Infinity Stone. Face it, ladies and gentlemen—you are in no position to make demands of me.”

And then everyone is talking over each other, trying to get a word in, trying to do something … Frigga listens for a few minutes, before she lets her voice be heard. “Enough!”

And they still.

“My decision is final. The Stones are coming with us. Midgard will continue to enjoy the privileges of an Asgardian protectorate, because I will not take to heart the insults you have heaped upon me, my son, and my people, nor will I take your opinions as the opinions of the wider public. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have matters greater than your petty squabbling to attend to.”

She spins on her heel towards the exit.

Fury catches her eye. _Wait for me_ , his gaze says. Frigga nods almost imperceptibly.

* * *

Fury returns some quarter if an hour later, brow scrounged up.

They set off to the Quinjet in silence, one Fury breaks midway there. “Your Majesty …” he pauses. “Officially, I’m supposed to try and persuade you to give up at least one of the two—the Tesseract, preferably. “

Her lips curve wryly, eyes fixed forward. “And unofficially?”

She can’t see his face, but the exasperated amusement is easy to discern from his tone of voice. “Unofficially …” he drawls, “take it. Take them both.”

She hums thoughtfully. “Unexpected … but not unwelcome. You surprise me, Director Fury.”

He chuckles. “Glad I could be of service, Ma’am.”


	25. XXV - Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my.  
> We're at an end.  
> I can't believe this, it really feels unreal. Thank you to everyone who's stuck by me through the ridiculousness and the angst and fluff, and second-hand embarrassment and ... wow. A lot has happened, hasn't it?  
> You guys are amazing.  
> Thank you all so, so much. 
> 
> And, without further ado, I give you ...

**XXV**

**The Epilogue**

By the time their week on Midgard passes, Loki is … better.

The realization hits him early in the morning, while most other inhabitants of the Tower are still blissfully asleep.

Ah … sleep.

It eludes him constantly, after that first day when he’d tumbled into a bed after they had shared the drinks and only got out only after Thor _dragged_ him out for the evening meal.

At first, it is by choice. Sleep means vulnerability, and vulnerability is not something he can afford, vulnerability gets one killed, _vulnerability displeases Master—_

Mother caught him awake in the middle of the third night of their stay here, and he is honestly unsure how it took her so long to figure him out. Certainly Miss Lewis and Dr Foster didn’t have the same problem.

He has made some attempts since then, mostly to appease her, but relaxing enough to actually _sleep_ … it is difficult. And when he does sleep, it’s hardly resting, it only ends up with jerking awake with muffled screams and tears streaming down his face. Better to use that time to do something, anything else.

So now he stands at the balcony, balancing a mug of tea on the rails, overlooking the dark city, and the sun that slowly peeks over the buildings.

But sleep aside … he is _better_. Not good, far from it. But … _better._ He can eat solid food without throwing up. Not much, but the progress is there. He has spent hours talking to Mother and Tony and Bruce. He’s even talked to Dr Foster, and …

Well, he has _tried_ , with Thor.

_His footsteps are too loud in his ears as he makes his way to Tony’s gym, where he sees Thor brutally assaulting a punching bag._

_He lingers at the door, just looking at his elder brother. Thor’s hair is longer than he remembers it, but then again, so is Loki’s. He hadn’t even noticed it has grown until the Other pressed the sceptre’s tip to his chest and he was engulfed in the blue. He had been told to prepare, to make himself presentable, and he remembers just twirling a stray curl between two fingers in wonder, before magically slicking it back._

_He is hesitating. ‘Coward’ something in the back of his mind whispers._

_Still, he can’t seem to force his feet to move forward._

_Fool._

_Thor stops his frantic attack at the poor, innocent bag, and swipes a bottle of water from the floor next to him, then takes a chug. And notices Loki in the process._

This was a bad idea, Silvertongue.

_“Loki?” Thor asks, voice strangely soft. It’s familiar in a way that makes something in Loki’s chest ache and cry out with anguish and fury._

_“Thor,” he says, the name tasting like ash on his lips. He swallows._

_Slivertongue. Norns, what a joke._

_A thousand thoughts passes through Loki’s mind_

_I hurt you. And I am sorry._

_Do you wish me dead, now that you know what I am?_

_Or has your stay with the mortals changed you that much?_

_Do you no longer desire to hunt the monsters down and slay them all?_

_Or are you refraining from it for Mother’s sake?_

_She might be saddened if I were to perish._

_She might mourn._

_I hurt you … but you hurt me first._

_You hurt me so much._

_Odin raised us beside each other so that your light would always be all that brighter against my darkness._

_But my darkness grew and grew and swallowed Asgard whole._

_I never wanted any of this to happen._

_I only wanted to be your equal._

_I only wanted to protect Asgard, but my plans ran away from me, and developed in ways I never could have predicted, and I’m sorry._

_I’m sorry._

_I’m sorry._

_I wish I’d died in the Void._

_It would be easier for us all._

_I’m sorry._

_No … I ought have died on Jötunheim, a millennia ago._

_Odin should have impaled by heart then, or kicked me down the cliff, or crushed my skull … or maybe he should just have left me there. He didn’t have to really do anything to kill me._

_It would have been the merciful thing to do._

_I’m sorry._

_I’m so, so sorry I’d lived._

_I didn’t mean to._

_He says none of it._

_“I …” he tries, but his throat is dry. “I was wondering if you might find these in Stark’s library for me,” he says, and summons forth a sheet of white paper upon which he had written out a dozen or so titles with great care._

_He’d meant to go look for them himself, but … Thor has no need of that knowledge, and Loki needs to escape this situation very much._

_Thor’s gaze softens in a way Loki doesn’t understand, and he takes the paper from Loki’s limp grip with the sort of delicacy he has rarely seen in him. Maybe when drawing. Thor used to be quite an artist when they were children, before they were bound by unwritten laws of propriety. He’d abandoned his stylus and sketches for a sword, then._

_Loki used to have several of his works stored somewhere in his chambers._

_He has no idea if anything of his still stands._

_Perhaps Odin has had it all burned down for spite. Loki wouldn’t be surprised._

_“Of course,” Thor says, voice gentle, and Loki_ doesn’t understand. _“Shall I have them delivered to your quarters?”_

_He usually does the reading in the middle of the night, when he can wander freely and the people are asleep. Well … should be. He’s still not sure what the matter with Dr Foster and Miss Lewis is._

_“Yes,” he says, pressing his nails into his skin to the point of pain. “I thank you.”_

_Thor smiles, and before the sight if it makes Loki vomit, he opens up a shadowpath to his quarters and teleports away._

So … that had not gone as well as it was supposed to, but …

He had found his books on the desk in the guestroom Tony had provided him with, complete with a message scribbled on a piece of paper, in Thor’s hand, in messy Asgardian runes.

_Here are the books you’d requested, Brother._

_– T_

He’d nearly crumpled at the familiar sight.

Pathetic.

Loki breaths in deeply. This high up, the air isn’t as polluted, but it still prickles uncomfortably at his senses.

In the early afternoon, after the midday meal, they would leave for Asgard.

Leave.

For Asgard.

Asgard.

The Golden Realm, the Realm Eternal.

With the Bifröst Bridge glimmering in the light of the twin suns, the gleaming Observatory perching at its end, with the towering golden spires of the Gladsheim Palace rising above Rógmálmr, the capital city. The sweet scent of flowers and freshly baked pastries in the air, the distant clashing of weapons, the chirping of songbirds, the thundering waterfalls tumbling over the edge of the world.

~~Like he did.~~

Home.

Home …

Home, with the spiteful glances and sneering comments, home, with Odin’s single eye looking down at him in judgement, _home_.

_It’ll be better._

_It’ll be better, Mother had promised._

Loki takes a deep, deep breath.

He can do this.

He misses Asgard, he misses home.

Or maybe he just misses the way his life was before it fell apart. And all it took was a single Frost Giant’s touch.

The night melts into day before his eyes. His tea grows cold.

He doesn’t know how long it has been. Someone inside calls his name, and Loki turns, leaving New York behind him.

* * *

Saying goodbyes is strange.

When he first arrived on Midgard (Norns, has it really only been ten days? It feels like a lifetime has passed.) he has never imagined he would find himself missing the mortals upon leaving.

Well, truth be told, _leaving_ meant a whole another thing back then. Returning to Thanos’s clutches, with two Infinity Stones in tow, then praying that he has served his purpose well enough and will finally be allowed to die.

But yes, he will indeed miss the quick-witted genius, the sharp-smiled assassin and the clever archer, the righteous captain, the berserker in a scientist’s skin, the irreverent ‘intern’ (whatever that word means), and even the kind-hearted astrophysicist his— _Thor_ —had taken a liking to.

No-one is quite sure how long it will take to repair the Bifröst, but Loki isn’t particularly worried about that. He’d pointed out, quite wryly, when concern was expressed on one of the many strategy meetings that have followed the first one, that he is well acquainted with pathways between the Realms, and is remarkably skilled in the art of World-Walking.

Thor’s brows had shot up, and he had jerked upright. “You mean to tell me,” he’d said, looking at Loki with earnest eyes, “that you can actually World-Walk between different Realms? The title Sky-Walker is _truly_ not an exaggeration, then?” His expression had melted into something strange Loki couldn’t quite place.

Before Loki could answer, preferably in some elusive and deflective way, Tony had dropped the glass he was holding, gaping. “Skywalker?” he’d said, breathless, eyes gleaming in a way Loki had come to recognize as heralding nothing good.

That evening, he had herded them all into the living room, and proclaimed they were having a _Star Wars_ marathon.

No-one believed Loki when he pointed out how much Mace Windu resembles Director Fury, but even Dr Foster herself had agreed that she is Padmé Amidala’s mirror image.

It was very late that night when he realized that the strange expression on Thor’s face was some sort of _pride_.

He is still uncertain what to think of it.

But he will World-Walk between Asgard and Midgard, and the pathways between the Realms will be a means of communication for all the others.

The goodbyes, therefore, aren’t too drawn out and tearful. Steve slaps him on a shoulder in a manner strangely reminiscent of Thor, Bruce shakes his hand, Natasha and Clint, to his eternal chagrin, stretch on their toes to ruffle his hair, Tony pulls him down into a hug. Miss Lewis and Dr Foster both smile, Lewis in her usual irreverent fashion and Foster much more subdued, and only for a short while, before she fully dedicates herself to the task of trying to devour Thor’s face.

She pats his cheek once they separate, and Dr Foster grins, grins in a manner Loki had, for all his professed admiration of the woman, not considered within her abilities. “Now, be careful not to smash yourself in the nose with your hammer again, Dear.”

Stark’s snickering is the only sound to be heard among the suddenly-silent group, but Loki can swear Dr Foster winks at him.

Norns help him.

They are at the roof of the Tower now, where he had closed the portal only seven days ago.

Mother and Thor and he are standing in an impromptu circle, the Tesseract levitating between their raised palms. Around them, the Midgardians’ expressions are solemn.

Anxiety is churning in Loki’s gut.

“Ready?” Mother questions softly.

_Hel no._

He nods.

Thor says something he doesn’t catch.

He feels the Tesseract activate under his mother’s power. The Cube glows brighter, until he can barely discern its sharp edges, until he can’t bear to even look at it.

And then … they disappear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thanks to [Tronin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tronin/pseuds/Tronin) who came up with Jane's amazing parting line, and graciously allowed me to use it. 
> 
> Now ... I swear I've started writing part two! I just kind of ... slowed down. I WILL finish this, have no fear, but I don't really like posting multi-chapter works unless I'm finished *side-eyes all my WIPs*, so the WHEN is in question. But up until then, I figure I might share with you some bits from what I HAVE written. It's a re-write of TDW, so keep that in mind.
> 
> “Heimdall,” Point Break says, and Tony’s gaze snaps back to the golden dude. So this is the Asgardian one-man magical surveillance system.  
> *  
> Jane smiles. “Asgard’s sexist,” she says, directed at Tony.  
> *  
> (about the Aether)  
> Tony snorts. “A cop touched her, and she sent him hurtling away with red jello.”  
> *  
> (about the genocide of the Dark Elves)  
> “How else prevent their filth from ever polluting the Nine again? It was dear old Grandpapa Bor who did it—you might have noticed the massive statue commemorating him on your way here.”  
> *  
> “Ah. I see.”  
> “Oh, fuck you,” Tony snorts. “I know that ‘I see’ is your code word for ‘what the fuck are you blabbering on about, worthless mortal?’.”  
> *  
> “Oh, you know,” Darcy says, twirling a strand of her hair between her fingers. “As well as I can be, considering I was sort of kidnapped by aliens like … ten minutes ago.”  
> “Yes, so I’ve heard,” the queen huffs, rolling her eyes. “I sometimes wonder at Thor’s cognitive processes.”  
> *  
> “Anyway, Intern, this is Queen Frigga of Asgard, the baddest bitch in town.”  
> *  
> “Those tomes are not meant to leave Palace borders,” comes Loki’s dry drawl. “Odin is very, very particular about keeping the knowledge contained.”  
> “What?” Tony moans. “That’s bullshit!”  
> “Indeed. However …” and now, a note of vicious pleasure enters the second prince’s voice, “what a tragedy would it be should some eccentric Midgardian billionaire capture those texts on his phone …”  
> There’s a pause. “A tragedy indeed,” Tony agrees. “On a completely unrelated note, I left my phone in my pocket back in my room, and we should probably go get it.”  
> *  
> “So … Asgard is like the US of the Nine Realms. Convinced in its own superiority? Protects freedom and the basic human rights by breaking them? Keeps peace by waging war?”  
> *  
> “Sig, Intern, Intern, Sig.”  
> “My Lord Intern,” Sigrid says, bowing like she did for Stark, and Ian silently begs for the ground to open up and swallow him.  
> *  
> “Does it have a name?” she asks softly, “the sea, I mean?”  
> “Eyvídir,” Loki answers. “It’s Norrœna for 'Eternal Sea'.”  
> She huffs a mirthless chuckle. “Imaginative.”  
> “Wait until you hear about the city called Edge, at the edge of a cliff, and the yonder noble family’s residence, Cliff-fort.”  
> *  
> “I’m sorry but … you’ve committed treason before?” Ian says weakly, tumbling down into the nearest chair.  
> “Aye,” Loki says, picking at his nails. “This will be my third. Thor’s as well. And Heimdall’s fourth, should he choose to assist us.”  
> *  
> “You are late.”  
> “A Queen is never late, nor is she early. She arrives precisely when she wants to.”  
> He turns, smiling a genuine, fond smile. “I see Tony had you read 'the Hobbit' as well.”  
> *  
> Once they’re all inside, Loki grins. “Ready to commit treason again?”  
> “Hey!” Miss Lewis protests. “It’s my and Jane’s first time!”  
> “Ah,” Loki says. “Of course. My apologies.”  
> *  
> “She has been pining after him since we were children.”  
> “And when was that?” Tony says, grinning. “Before or after the birth of Christ?”  
> *  
> “I solemnly promise,” Tony says, fist pressed against his chest, against the arc reactor, “that if we survive this, and the Malepocalypse doesn’t come, I’ll have you watch or read every single bit of reindeer and/or goat-related media I can find.”  
> “Marvellous,” Loki breathes. “Wait … Malepocalypse?”  
> “Clever, eh?” Tony says. “I made it myself—Malekith and apocalypse combined into Malepocalypse, an apocalypse instigated by Malekith.”  
> *
> 
> So ... I hope you're all as excited as I am about this!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!!
> 
> [Tumblr.](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/stars-and-darkness)


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